Shall We Play A Game?
by FraidyCat
Summary: Reader-influenced. Bio-terrorism, Charlie whumping and more. Story does not violate TOS as all reviewer suggestions are filtered through a cat.
1. In the Beginning

**Title: ****Shall We Play a Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer/Invitation: _FraidyCat, who casts no aspersions regarding the true ownership of all things "Numb3rs", invites and welcomes reader participation during this story. The first chapter is based on the first four words, which plagued The Cat for days, begging to be written. Each subsequent chapter will be based upon the suggestions and stimuli offered by readers/reviewers. This story may go wherever you decide to take it, should you choose to play with us. FraidyCat reserves the right to pick and choose. For example, slash suggestions will not be considered. Neither will Charlie and/or Don be put to death. This is your opportunity to write without bothering to actually "write" (beyond your brief review/suggestion)._**

_**FraidyCat wants to know: Can you come out to play?**_

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**Chapter One: ****In The Beginning**

Charlie tipped over slowly.

His arms flailed momentarily in an attempt to find balance; he made an effort to set the world on its axis again. Unfortunately, the only thing his frantic waving accomplished was to lend a general malaise to the fall. His dark eyes widened in shock and anticipation of the inevitable. That "deer-in-the-headlights" fear was the last thing to keep Don's focus, as Charlie tipped over. Slowly.

The office chair containing his brother finally crashed to the floor, squirting out from under him like toothpaste from a tube. It skidded to a stop just a few inches from Don's legs. Automatically, his eyes were drawn to the approaching furniture and he took a step back just to be safe. The choking sound of suppressed laughter -- from Granger, he was sure -- filled him with both anger and guilt. He redirected his attention to the hapless professor. "Um...you okay there, Buddy?"

Charlie just blinked up at him, trapped on his back like the potato bugs they used to torture in their mother's garden. He appeared to be stunned speechless.

A chuckling Colby brushed past Don and leaned over Charlie, extending a hand. "Dude. Told you not to lean back in the chair like that."

Charlie silently grasped the hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Don watched him sway as he gained altitude, and narrowed his eyes at his brother's continued silence. "Chuck, did you hit your head?"

Charlie let go of Colby and glowered at Don. "Don't call me that," he whispered.

Don moved around the downed chair to stand closer to Charlie. Close enough to note the increased, shallow respirations. Close enough to casually grasp Charlie's bare arm, under his t-shirt, and twist slightly, woefully aware of the clammy feel to that skin as he did so. "Bruise your elbow?" he asked, tightening his hold just a little. "Maybe you should sit down."

Colby agreed, but not without snark. "Yeah. Preferrably in something without wheels."

Charlie jerked his arm from Don's hold and frowned, taking a halting step toward the conference room table. "I'm not finished showing you what I found, yet."

Don glanced at the patient laptop and sighed. He turned slowly, mimicking Charlie's movements. "_Come on_. We busted the guy this morning -- this is an unnecessary waste of our time." It had come out harsher than he intended, and his next sentence did not help. "Colby and I were just going to humor you until the pizza was gone."

Charlie's head whipped around so fast his curls created a breeze that Don could feel two feet away. "I beg your pardon," the younger man said in a hurt tone. "I thought this search pattern might help you in other cases." He crossed his arms over his chest defensively and his pained expression became sullen. "Besides, I was up half the night doing this for you. Is it that unreasonable of me to expect you to _listen_ for five minutes?"

Colby held up his hands, palms-out, in mock surrender. Don exhaled in exasperation. "Charlie, we appreciate the effort. Really. But we've already been in here for half-an-hour. I saw David come back from his dentist appointment fifteen minutes ago." He ran a hand over his head, frustrated. "We've got other cases, Charlie."

The color drained from his brother's face, and Don took a step in his direction. "Chuck?" Charlie's eyes rolled toward the back of his head and he began to sink. Don leaped to cover the short distance between them, and managed to grab him, by both arms this time. Charlie was unresponsive, sagging in his grip, and both brothers hit their knees. Charlie's head lolled to the side, and Don moved one hand to support his brother's neck. "Charlie!" he shouted. The arm Don still held was sweaty, and slipping from his grasp. "Charlie!" he called again, moving with him as he slumped into the carpet, desperate to protect Charlie's head.

It happened again, and Don could not stop it. He could only hang on for the ride as Charlie tipped over, slowly.


	2. Sarah's Revenge

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem**

**Invitation: Remember, this is the readers' story. I was truly intrigued by some of the suggestions that came my way after chapter one. It's cute that many of you are guessing at what "I" might have in mind -- as if you don't trust me, or something. "I" have nothing in mind -- _you all_ are to blame for this one! I am tempted to write more than one scenario. In the end, something Ms. Graham Cracker said made the decision: poor Charlie has suffered nearly everything by my keyboard already; therefore, I'm going to have to go with Sarah's suggestion – bioterrorism -- since I have not done that yet. (I actually did the sleep deprivation thing somewhere; nice research effort, though!) The bioterroristic agent I have chosen has cumulative effects, so in a manner of speaking, it is also a "slow poison", which several others suggested.**

**Please keep playing. You can suggest plot devices or twists; or, perhaps you have a favorite line you've always wanted to see in fanfic. Tell me what it is, and I will try to work it in.**

_**giggle...**_** Are we having fun yet?**

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**Chapter Two: ****Sarah's Revenge**

The trip to the hospital was interminable.

Charlie had regained consciousness after only a few seconds, but he was slightly confused and lethargic. Still, he protested when Don instructed Colby to call 9-1-1. "I'm all right," he had insisted, now in a sitting position, leaning against the wall of the conference room. "I've been coming down with the flu, or something."

Don, squatting next to him, gratefully accepted a cold bottle of water from David, who had come running when he heard the shouts. Don passed the water on to Charlie and shook his head. "Damn it, Chuck, you could have told me. Anytime I come to you with a job – you have the right to turn me down, you know!" He was working himself into a righteous lather. "I can't believe you stayed up working on this when you were sick – and _then_ came in to brief us, even though I told you on the phone we already closed the case!" Colby cleared his throat and Don stopped ranting abruptly. This was not the time for browbeating Charlie – he could save that for later.

Charlie sipped delicately at the water, almost too weak to lift his arm to his mouth. He grimaced as he let the limb fall heavily to his lap, seemingly unaware of the water that sloshed out of the bottle and onto his jeans. "I couldn't sleep anyway," he rasped, starting to lose his voice. "My back hurt too much to lie down."

"What else?" Don demanded, and Charlie met his eyes with his own briefly before he let his gaze wander to Colby, who had joined them on the floor.

"Maybe a little headache," he finally admitted.

Don's hand shot out and made contact with Charlie's forehead. His brother tried to jerk away, but was stopped by the wall. Don emitted a _cluck_ of disapproval and started to stand. "That's it. You're burning up, sweating like a potbellied pig. You're weak – you just passed the hell out, dammit! You're going to the hospital, Charlie. We can do this the easy way – or we can do this the hard way; either way, we're doing this."

It took all three of the agents to get Charlie on his feet and down to the lobby of the FBI building. Don regretted giving his brother a choice of transport almost immediately – he should have called the ambulance. His worry increased with every stagger of Charlie's step, and his attitude soured proportionately. When they finally exited the elevator in the lobby, Colby helped navigate Charlie toward a small waiting area and then sprinted off toward the parking garage. There was no way they were getting the youngest Eppes all the way there, so they quickly decided to bring the vehicle to him.

Don and David gave Charlie a few minutes to rest. While they were standing over a harshly-breathing mathematician in the waiting area, David thought of the wheelchairs kept in the First Aid Station. There was at least one on hand for in-house emergencies, or visitors to the Bureau who needed to borrow one; the tour was a lot longer than some were expecting. "Be right back," he muttered in Don's direction, and was gone before Don could even ask where he was going.

At the same time, Don's cell chirped. He yanked it off the waistband of his jeans so hard that the clip on the back of the case broke. Pieces clattered across the floor as he jammed the phone to his ear. "Son of a _bitch_," he growled into the cell. "What the hell do _you_ want?"

There was a moment of silence, and then the decidedly-frosty tones of his superior. "I was rather hoping for a run-down on the Mitchell case," he heard. "I realize your team is short-handed, and just caught the case this morning, but the press is all over this one."

Don sat down heavily next to Charlie on the tasteful leather couch. He closed his eyes. "Assistant Director. My apologies. I'm…my…that is…I have a personal issue," he finally managed.

A.D. Wright's voice didn't thaw any. "Surely your personal issue does not require the attention of Agents Granger and Sinclair?"

Don glanced at Charlie, who was listing dangerously close to the edge of the couch, his own eyes closed. A fine sheen of sweat covered his pale face. "I need one of them to drive," he countered. "Dr. Eppes became ill during a briefing and I'm taking him to the hospital – but I'm not comfortable driving him without…some back-up…."

Wright's voice took on a tad more warmth. "Perhaps you should just summon an ambulance," he suggested.

Don stood again, started pacing. "I probably should have. But this'll be faster, now." He tried to calm himself down. He was an experienced federal agent, for Pete's sake, and here he was letting a case of the flu rattle him worse than a bank robbery. He glanced at Charlie again. "He just doesn't look good," he practically whispered. "I want to get him there as soon as possible."

Wright's tone became clipped and businesslike. "Of course. Have Agent Granger drive; he's like a bat out of hell behind the wheel. If you can spare him, please send Agent Sinclair back to the bullpen."

"Of course," Don agreed. "Thank-you, Assistant Director." He had just disconnected when David jogged into sight, pushing a wheelchair. Don sighed in relief, and hoped again that he was doing the right thing.

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Sarah Sampson picked up another half-gallon carton of milk and poured it down the drain. No doubt the infamous "Bernie", of _Bernie's Diner_, would be pissed when he opened up in the morning and discovered that there was no milk for the breakfast crowd. He would yell at her for not ordering enough, or letting him know. Not that it was of any concern to her.

She had done her job; performed her task well, and soon she would re-join the others. They would fine-tune their press release, and plan the next strike. When the coalition leadership had agreed unanimously that it was time to get the attention of the masses, she had been thrilled. Joe would be vindicated.

He had given his life for the coalition. He had been one of the original five. They had met during a sit-in at Berkely. Their attempt at peaceful protest had resulted only in suspension, and soon the three men and two women dropped out altogether. They formed their own underground movement. They started slowly, by publishing propaganda. They tried to point out the error of everyone else's ways. They tried to show the selfish, arrogant fools how to live a life more in harmony with the universe.

L.A. was nothing if not the center of self-indulgence, however, and the effect of the group was miniscule. It soon became apparent that more radical means would have to be considered. A research committee was formed. They spent hours reading old newspaper stories and books written about protest groups in the 60s. Then, a membership committee began actively recruiting at several California campuses. Sarah had attended her first meeting as a freshman at UCLA. Within months, she had dropped out of school and was living communally with several other Planet Green members.

It was in that first dingy apartment in East L.A. that she had fallen in love with Joe. Oh, she willingly let herself be passed around in the beginning, to whomever wanted her, but it was Joe who made her feel pleasure. The experience was mutual, and he began to claim her as his territory. Even when he was gone – raiding construction sites for C-4, breaking into homes in search of weapons – the others would leave her alone. They respected Joe, and by extension, they respected her. Sarah and Joe spent two years working side-by-side to insure that the world became a better place. She even began to fantasize that one day, they would win. One day, they could live in the open, like any other couple. They might even have a family.

Then Joe had been killed.

Viciously murdered by the pigs who declared marshall law their right. Joe and two of the others had cased the armory for months. A successful break-in there could set them up for good – no more nickel-and-diming it at personal residences. They had set-up a replica for rehearsals, and even managed to plant a civilian employee inside for a while. Alas, the woman, working as a temporary secretary, was not there long enough to learn of the back-up alarm system. Miguel had efficiently disarmed the main system, and the trio had brazenly entered the armory, taking their time sorting through the weapons and ammo, and carting them out to the van. They never suspected that a second, silent alarm had been sounded. They never saw the pigs surrounding the armory.

Not until a sniper shot Joe in the head as he started to climb into the driver's seat of the van.

Despite "official" reports, Sarah and the rest of the coaliton knew the truth: The FBI hadn't even given them a chance to surrender – not that they would have, she admitted. In vindictive grief and heartbreak, coalition leadership had turned it up a notch. Sarah was planted at _Bernie's_, Aaron broke into a lab and came out with some_ Brucella _bacteria, and the rest was easy.

Contaminating the milk was simple, albeit carefully done. Sarah's duties at the diner included closing up at night, so she had a key. Therefore, it was nothing to exchange the contaminated milk with the milk already in the cooler. For two weeks, she had fed the tainted product to all customers, regulars and first-timers alike. Today, almost half of the usual crowd didn't show for dinner, and there had been murmurings of an especially virulent flu making the rounds. It was time to dump the milk. In a week, she would quit – if Bernie didn't fire her first, of course.

She almost hoped he would.

She ached to return to them, to her family, to her life.

It was possible the _brucellosis_ would kill some, if it was not discovered in time. There could be severe central nervous system or pericardial infections. Sarah had sat and listened to the research team's reports with the rest of coalition leadership. In the end, though, she found herself unable to care.

As far as she was concerned, they all deserved to die.


	3. Time's A'Wastin

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem**

**Invitation: Remember, this is the readers' story. Please keep playing. You can suggest plot devices or twists; or, perhaps you have a favorite line you've always wanted to see in fanfic. Tell me what it is, and I will try to work it in.**

_**chortle ...**_** Our Story Continues ...  
**

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**Chapter 3: Time's A'Wastin'**

The ER was busy -- busier than Don expected for the middle of the afternoon on a weekday. There were only two seats together in the waiting area, and Colby had been forced to loiter behind the brothers Eppes until a woman holding a bloody towel against her forehead was taken into the exam area by her solicitous husband. The couple had unnerved Don even further, at first because his finely-honed law enforcement prejudices led him to suspect the man of causing the damage himself. Then, it turned out that the younger man was friendly, and worried. The combination loosened his tongue and he provided Don with all sorts of unsolicited information, the most disturbing of which was that the wife had been fighting the flu for several days. She had injured her head when she passed out in her kitchen and hit the edge of the table on the way down. Don tried to tell himself that two cases of the flu presenting in the same ER on the same day was probably not all that unusual. Even in May.

Colby finally got the chair on the other side of Charlie, whose total silence -- apart from the congested breathing -- was also starting to alarm Don. Granted, they didn't live together anymore, but the little brother he remembered was a royal pain in the ass when he was sick, always whining about something. The only exceptions were when it was really serious -- like when his appendix had burst when he was 10. Oh, he had fretted and moaned for the first 24 hours, and the entire family had assumed the sushi one of his tutors had talked him into trying was a mistake. Then he had become oddly silent, and 24 hours later Don was standing in-between his parents in a hospital much like this one, watching Charlie being rushed away toward a surgery that might be too late. Or later, when they were both in college. Their schools were on opposite sides of the country, but they had reconvened at the Craftsman during Don's junior year -- Charlie was already about to graduate, a year-and-a-half before he would -- for the winter break. "Break" has turned out to be the operative word. The entire family was working outside. Don and their mother were weeding the flower garden. Charlie had drawn the short straw -- he and their father were both on ladders, cleaning out the gutters. Charlie had leaned too far, there had been a startled yelp, and Don looked up just in time to see his brother plummet 15 feet. He tried to break his fall, as people usually do, and what often happens in such a case happened to Charlie. There was a sickening, unbelieveably loud _snap_ when his hand made contact with the earth, and Charlie had immediately curled into a fetal position around his injured limb. He had not screamed, or cried. In fact, he hardly talked at all for days. The compound fracture had required surgery. Charlie was only in the hospital overnight for that, but he came home pale and silent, his arm in a sling, and lived in his bed for three more days. Every time Don tramped up the stairs to visit, Charlie's face was pinched with pain and his conversation was monosyballic.

Charlie's silence was _so_ not a good thing.

Don and Colby talked over him for a while, then eventually fell into quietness themselves. They sat there so long that Don decided to send Colby back to the office. Or maybe home -- it was already past 5. His own throat was parched, and he longingly thought of the water cooler he had spotted near the registration desk when they had first arrived. He stood stiffly, glancing down at Charlie. His fever was so high now that droplets of sweat were actually rolling off his face. If Don was thirsty, Charlie was the Sahara. He shifted his gaze to Colby. "Stay here with him," Don implored. "I'm going around the corner to that water cooler. I'll bring some back for Charlie." He sighed, raising one hand to rub the back of his neck. "You should probably take off, then. Looks like we'll be here forever."

Colby's eyes wandered to the clock high on the wall. "Nah," he shrugged. "I got nowhere else I need to be."

Don smiled wanly and shook his head. "We'll talk about it when I get back," he warned, and then he couldn't help himself. He reached out and grabbed a fistful of Charlie's damp curls and leaned over slightly to look into his glazed eyes. "Buddy. I'm going to get you some water, okay?"

Charlie blinked slowly, and took way too long to process that information. " 'kay," he finally answered quietly. Don patted his head twice and tried to smile reassuringly, and then headed for the water.

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Sarah smiled grimly as Aaron walked into the apartment. Coalition leadership was debriefing tonight, and he was the last to arrive at the meeting. He was greeted warmly, but it didn't take Cracker long to launch into official business. Despite his nickname, which spoke to the lighter side of his personality, he was in charge for a reason. He had been one of the original five, with Joe. Now, just Cracker and his partner, Dawn, remained of that group. In the ten years since Planet Green's inception, the two other women had faded away, selling out to the society they had claimed to despise. It had been almost two years since Joe was murdered. Two years of escalating Planet Green's activities. Two years of waiting to avenge Joe. Sarah knew that Cracker was almost as desperate as she was to see that moment arrive.

He looked at her now across the circle. "Estimate," he ordered. "Will this be enough?"

Sarah rested her hands in her lap. They were all sitting cross-legged on the floor. "It will," she assured him.

She was surprised when Aaron disagreed. "I say, let's pick another outlet. We still have the bacteria. How effective can a few weeks at a small diner be? It's not like those who ingested the tainted milk will spread it to others; we know _brucellosis_ is not transmitted human-to-human."

Sarah hotly defended her position. "Hundreds of people came through _Bernie's_ doors in the last two weeks -- the diner is not as small as you imply."

"We need thousands," Aaron countered. "Without something big -- huge -- they still will not take us seriously."

Cracker interrupted. "We chose _Bernie's_ in part because of his hand-packed, 'homemade' ice cream sales. If he used the milk to prepare that ice cream, we may get your thousands."

Dawn supported her man. "Exactly." She glanced at Sarah. "Plus, it is a family diner. There were many children there for breakfast, yes?"

"Yes," Sarah confirmed. "There will surely be at least one death. I served the same little girl a tall glass of milk every morning for two weeks. She has ingested a large amount of the bacteria." She grinned. "She was not there, this morning. Her father takes her to breakfast every day before school, but he said the girl's mother would not let her go this morning, claiming the girl was ill. He ranted about custody arrangements for half-an-hour, convinced the woman was lying."

Cracker snorted. "There will be death," he agreed, "and that will bring us attention." He tilted his head, thoughtful. "Still, there is no such thing as _too much_ attention. We have the bacteria. I think Aaron is right; we should use it."

Patty, one of the younger members, joined the conversation. "We should release it," she started, "where it will do the most harm." She turned to the young man seated at her right. "Marcus, you still work part-time at the hospital?"

"Of course," he answered. "I'm going in tonight. I'll be keeping my ear to the ground. I pulled a shift yesterday, and the census was up; there had already been some flu admits."

Cracker followed Patty's logic, and became excited. He bounced a little on the floor. "Tremendous idea, love," he crowed, and Patty blushed happily and hoped he would reward her later with an invitation to join him and Dawn for the night. "As a janitor, you have access to the entire hospital!" He rubbed his hands together gleefully, and leaned forward a little. "Aaron," he summoned. "Help us plan the most effective method of release."

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Don stood over the cooler and drank deeply from the paper cup, his back to the automatic doors that kept the exam area shut off from triage and waiting. One more cup, and then he would take two or three -- as many as he could carry -- back to Charlie. He heard the doors _whoosh_ open, and hoped that someone was coming to get his brother, but didn't turn around, finding himself afraid to look and be disappointed.

He heard a woman speak rapidly, not unkindly, but definitely harried. "Now be sure to follow the doctor's instructions," she said. "Plenty of rest and fluids. Just have a seat around the corner in the waiting area. If I can't reach either of your sons, I'll call a taxi. I'll come and let you know, either way."

"Thank-you, nurse." The voice was scratchy, but Don recognized it right away.

The empty cup slipped from his hands as he turned to gape at the man in the hall. "Oh, my God," he whispered. Hospital personnel and potential patients bustled between and around them, and no-one seemed to hear. He took a step forward and raised his voice. "Dad!"

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**A/N: All-right now, you have some decisions to make. How sick is Alan? How sick is Charlie? (Remember, you cannot kill Charlie -- but Alan is negotiable.) Alan is obviously being sent home, but will Charlie be admitted? Will he be in the hospital when the bacteria is released by the janitor tonight? How will he release it? Will he simply leave a box in a corridor and wait for someone to open it, or will he add the bacteria to the spray bottles of disinfectant, so that all the janitors are just spraying it all over everything? Maybe he should find a way to get into the air duct system.**

**What will you do next?**


	4. You Give Me Fever

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem**

**Invitation: Remember, this is the readers' story. ****Please keep playing****. You can suggest plot devices or twists; or, perhaps you have a favorite line you've always wanted to see in fanfic. Tell me what it is, and I will try to work it in. It might take me a few chapters to find a natural insertion point, so keep watching. (I'm fairly certain Charlie will cry in his boxers sooner or later.)**

_**A/N: Ah, my little minions. Here I was, all ready to wipe the floor with Alan, who as an elderly person is more susceptible to illness – but few of you agree with me. The tribe has spoken, and your wish is my command: Alan will survive. It was also kind of you to ignore my obvious faux pas – poor Sarah works from breakfast through closing? Forgive me. I will take a moment to deal with that, but it may be in the next chapter.**_

_**guffaw…**_** Our Story Continues…**

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**Chapter Four: ****You Give Me Fever**

Colby stood again so that Alan could sit next to Charlie while Don tried to decide what to do. He stated the obvious. "You need to go home, Dad."

Alan held a handkerchief to his mouth while he sneezed, and shook his head behind it. He was frowning when he lowered his hand. "I want to stay with Charlie," he protested in a voice almost as painful to hear as it must be to use. Sick as he was, Charlie's silence had not escaped Alan's attention, and he glanced at him worriedly now.

Don sighed. "Dad, you know they're not going to let you anywhere near him when you're sick yourself."

Charlie suddenly animated, and moved weakly in the hard plastic chair. "Let's all go home," he suggested breathily. "They'll end up sending me there, too. I can just do whatever they told Dad." He coughed once, drily. "This chair hurts." Both his father and brother objected at once, and he squeezed his eyes shut as if they were ears. "My head," he whispered.

Colby had seen enough. Sometimes, a junior agent just had to step into the role of command. He moved to the front of Alan's chair and wrapped his hand around the older man's upper arm. "I'll take Alan home," he announced. He tugged lightly on the arm. "He will give me those papers and I'll take care of whatever it says he's supposed to do. Fill prescriptions. Set-up the humidifier. Get some of that awesome chicken soup he always keeps in the freezer out to thaw. Whatever." His eyes roamed over Charlie's drawn face and then settled on Don's. "You'll stay with Charlie as long as it takes. I'll tuck in Dad and wait at the Craftsman for you."

Despite his misery, Alan fairly beamed as he looked up. "Did you just call me 'Dad'?"

A snort of laughter erupted from Don, and Colby rolled his eyes and let go of Alan's arm. "Just keep it planted for a few, _Dad_. I'll bring the car around."

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Marcus arrived early for his shift. It was exciting to walk thru the busy ER. If this was any indication of what the _Brucella_ could do after just two weeks, there could indeed be a final toll in the thousands. Especially after he released more of the particularly virulent strain of the bacteria tonight. After another two weeks of incubation, hospital staff and roaming visitors would begin to drop. Patients, already weakened by whatever brought them here, would probably be affected right away.

It was delicious, the damage a simple bacteria could do when released in the right place.

He used his keys to let himself into the room that held the janitorial and housekeeping carts. Some were out on the floor in use, of course – an acceptable loss. The bulk of the staff worked at night, however, when the hospital was quieter, its traffic somewhat calmer. He carefully locked the door again and pulled the rubber gloves from his back pocket; from the other pocket, a surgical mask. When he was sufficiently protected, he opened the small, brown lunch bag he had carried through the corridors of the hospital. There were four vials.

He had been part of the crew who worked on the milk, so experience helped him move quickly. One at a time, he moved each cart to the large sink at the back of the room. He worked efficiently. First, he dumped each spray bottle's disinfectant down the drain. Then, he rinsed the containers with water for a few seconds. Next, Marcus ran fresh water to the halfway, or three-quarter mark. All the bottles must appear to have different amounts of the cleaner inside; things should look the way people expected – if only on a subconscious level. Finally, he added the _Brucella_. The disinfectant that remained in the bottle would dilute the bacteria; but it was such a pure, strong, sample -- born and bred in a lab toiling under a government contract to develop a vaccine -- that enough damage would be done anyway.

There was not enough for every bottle, but it was an added insurance policy that no disinfectant would be used in any area of the hospital tonight. Natural bacteria already present would thrive and multiply and contribute to the general mayhem. Thinking about it was almost…orgasmic.

Marcus had just finished, discarding the gloves and mask – reminding himself to don the second set before he actually began his shift – when there was a noise at the door and a key turned the knob. He glanced around quickly, looking for anything out of place. Finding nothing, he was pretending to button the top of his jumpsuit when the door swung open to admit James, who worked swing shift. He started to push his cart inside, and his eyes widened almost comically when he saw Marcus. "Dude!" The eyes narrowed in suspicion immediately. "Whachoo doin' in here? Yer shift don't start fer tree more hours!"

Marcus winked and smoothed his hair. He craned his neck as if attempting to see beyond James. "Did you see her, man? That hot little number from x-ray?"

Suspicion and confusion melted into lasciviousness. "Damn. The one don't wear no underthings?"

Marcus grinned. "Oh, yeah. Baby, this hospital is gonna be _hot_ tonight!"

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Alan yawned and watched Colby set a glass of water and a tin of throat lozenges on the bedside table, next to a bottle of acetomeniphen. A humidifier hummed steadily in the corner. "Need anything else, Alan?"

He smiled sleepily. "I liked it when you called me 'Dad'."

Colby toed the carpet, embarrassed – but he grinned at his shoes. He looked up and cleared his throat. "Yeah. Well…I'll go get that soup out of the freezer. You get some rest."

Alan yawned again. "Have some ice cream," he offered. "Charlie has been mentoring a young man in South L.A. – met him at that citywide high school science fair, I think…." He wrinkled his brow in confusion. "Why did I tell you that?"

Colby grinned again at the lost look on Alan's face. "Ice cream?" he guessed.

Alan's face cleared. "Oh! Oh, right. He's found a diner over there he really likes – _Bernie's_. Took me to breakfast a couple of Saturdays ago. They make homemade ice cream, and he brought back some strawberry the last time he stopped there for dinner. Help yourself."

Colby paused at the door to turn out the overhead bedroom light. "Thanks, Alan. Maybe I will. Call if you need anything."

"Thank-you, Colby," Alan murmured sleepily. "You're a good son."

Granger grinned all the way down the stairs.

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The trauma bay was just too inundated. By the time Charlie was finally called back to exam, family members – with the exception of the parents of very young children – were no longer allowed access to the exam cubicles. Don was forced to stay in the waiting area.

It was still fairly crowded, and he was more than willing to give up his chair, and pace for awhile. Charlie was taken away from him at 7 p.m. At 8 he stepped just outside the main ER entrance long enough to turn on his cell and call Colby. He didn't answer his cell, which unnerved the tightly-strung Don to no end, but he finally got him to pick up the landline at the Craftsman. The younger agent assured him that his father was already sleeping soundly, and everything was under control at the house. Still, Don wasn't happy about the hospital sending his father home. If he had felt badly enough to come to the ER in the first place, Don knew that Alan was _sick_. When all of this was over, they were going to have quite a talk, too. Alan must have taken a taxi to the ER, rather than trying to contact either of his sons – no doubt loathe to disturb them at work. There would be no more of that sort of nonsense if Don had anything to say about it.

Don took another seat in the waiting area for a few minutes, but soon got antsy and started pacing again. Around 9, Don planted himself near the water cooler, where he could watch the doors between him and his brother. If the hospital tried to say _Charlie_ was well enough to go home also, Don might have to get ugly. Sure, it was probably just the flu – but sometimes, influenza still killed people. Don wasn't about to let that happen; not to anyone who was_ his_ responsibility. He had already decided that he was taking a personal day tomorrow, team short-handed or not. First thing in the morning he was contacting Alan's personal physician. He wanted a second opinion.

It was nearly 10 before a clearly exhausted doctor emerged long enough to inform him that Charlie had a temperature of 104.6, and would indeed be admitted. Don was at once relieved and terrified. "That's…really high," he said nervously. "Are you starting antibiotics?"

The doctor shook his head. "Influenza is a viral URI, son, antibiotics won't help with that. We want to keep him on IV fluids for a while to deal with the dehydration, treat his aches and pains with Tylenol®. Frankly, if his fever was not quite so pronounced, we'd probably send him home."

Don glared at the attending. "Then you'd better damn well be glad it is," he growled.

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Don was not allowed to see Charlie again. He would have stayed at the hospital and fought the decision, but he was in the uncomfortable position of having to choose his battles. He needed to get home to his father.

He was at the Craftsman by 11. He tried to talk Colby into spending the night in the guest room, but soon found out why the agent had not answered his cell phone earlier – he had lost it. "Did you see it in the chairs in the hospital waiting room?" Granger asked. "I've searched all over the house – went out to the car – I'm thinking it must have fallen out of my pocket there."

Don shook his head. "I'd have asked if I knew…" he started.

Colby interrupted him. "Didn't know it was missing myself until you told me I wasn't answering. Hell, I'll just go by the hospital on my way home and check at the ER desk. Maybe somebody turned it in."

Don rolled his neck, and made a bitter sound of resignation. "If they did," he warned, "you'd better dip it in disinfectant before you use it again."

Colby laughed, recommended a bowl of Charlie's ice cream for relaxation purposes – it was great stuff – and left for the hospital.

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_**A/N: Ooooooooh…Colby ate some ice cream…AND he is on his way back to the hospital, where he will arrive during the night shift, while every custodian is spraying Brucella… Will he somehow figure out that everything is not normal? Will he expose Marcus and Planet Green? Will Don also eat some ice cream? Will the two agents spend the entire two-week incubation period trying to discover who has done this dastardly deed while fighting symptoms themselves? Will Charlie or Alan recover enough to help? Where is Amita, Larry, and/or Millie?**_

_**I can't wait to see what you do next…**_


	5. Establish a Pattern

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem**

**Invitation: Remember, this is the readers' story. ****Please keep playing****. You can suggest plot devices or twists; or, perhaps you have a favorite line you've always wanted to see in fanfic. Tell me what it is, and I will try to work it in.**

_**A/N: I must say: Some of you puppies are quite ill. The Twinkster wants me to infect Charlie's family jewels? As if he didn't have enough problems…**_

_**HA!…**_** Our Story Continues…**

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**Chapter Five: ****Establish a Pattern**

There was a long line at the admission desk, so Colby rounded the corner into the waiting area first. It was after midnight by now, but it was just as crowded as it had been when he left almost six hours before. Someone was sitting in the chair he had occupied. There was an empty chair next to him, although several people were standing. After a brief perusal, Colby could understand their reluctance to get very close. The – man? -- was rocking back-and-forth, twisting a long strand of greasy hair around the finger of a hand he held over one ear. He appeared to be talking to himself. Occasionally he would lift his other hand and slap himself in the face. Colby decided that if his phone was under that butt, he would just buy a new cell.

He shuddered and left the waiting area. He stopped at the water cooler for some brief refreshment, and then joined the line at the admission desk, behind a woman in her 30s standing with her arm around a young girl, about 10 years old. The woman looked at Colby with apprehension and mild suspicion, as if he somehow represented danger, and he tried to put her at ease. He smiled disarmingly at the flushed little girl. "You're up past your bedtime," he teased lightly, and she grinned tremulously back.

"I slept all day," she responded, her voice far too deep for a little girl her size.

Her mother pulled her a little closer. "Don't talk, sweetheart," she said. "You'll hurt your throat."

The child lifted one hand to rub at the front of her neck and leaned into her mother. "Yeah," she whispered. "Wish I had some of _Bernie's_ ice cream."

Colby straightened, and his smile turned into a frown. "_Bernie's_?" He directed his question to the mother. "Diner on the South side?"

She sighed and nodded. "Her father takes her there almost every morning. Idiot. A little girl needs her father for more than breakfast at _Bernie's_." The little girl's shoulders began to shake, and she buried her face in her mother's side. The woman leaned her head toward her daughter. "Hush, baby, Mama's sorry. Mama's sorry. I'm just worried about you."

The girl pulled back. "I can still go with Daddy?" she asked. Her mother reassured her, and Colby was about to ask more about _Bernie's_ when the colorful character from the waiting area passed by the queue, still talking to himself and walking directly into the corner near the front entrance. His feet were still moving as if he thought he could somehow make the wall disappear. The child made a face and tried to hide between her mother and Colby. "I don't like that man," she whispered. "He always eats alone."

Her mother gently reprimanded her. "Laura, it's not nice to make fun of someone just because he's…different." She arched her eyebrows at Colby over her daughter's head.

"But _nobody_ likes him," Laura insisted. "Daddy said he comes to the diner every single meal, and he always sits alone at the counter. No-one will sit next to him. He always talks to himself that way. And he's dirty."

Colby glanced again at the decrepit stranger and then leaned slightly to talk to Laura. "He eats at _Bernie's_, sweetheart?"

She nodded seriously. "He pays with pennies and nickels," she reported. "Miss Sarah said he never leaves a tip."

The line suddenly moved and Laura and her mother reached the counter, where the older woman began reciting Laura's symptoms. Colby turned to regard the strange apparition again just in time to see him go down, knees giving way like jelly as he dropped to the floor in an unconscious, filthy heap. "Hey!" said Colby loudly, but hospital personnel were already scurrying to deal with their latest emergency.

"Sir?" Colby heard, and he turned back to find that Laura and her mother had disappeared, and the tired ward clerk was tapping a pen on the counter to get his attention. "Sir!"

Colby stepped forward and flashed his most brilliant smile. "Sorry. I was here earlier tonight with a friend and I think I may have lost my cell phone in the waiting area. Has anyone turned one in to you?"

The clerk grimaced. "I'm three hours into OT. So far today we've collected two Barbie® dolls, four books, seven cells and an umbrella."

Colby pondered. "An umbrella? It hasn't rained since February."

She shrugged. "It is what it is. And what _it is_, is in a box with all of the other stuff; on its way to lost-and-found. One of the custodial staff just picked it all up and is dropping if off at administration. I'm sorry, you'll have to come back during business hours to look for your phone."

Colby heard a sound of distress from someone behind him in the line, and hurriedly asked for Charlie's room number. "Visiting hours are over," the clerk said, and Colby flashed his most charming dimple.

"Yeah, of course. I just wanna send him flowers. In the morning."

She yawned and tapped a few keys on her computer, completely unperturbed by the dirty lump in the corner and all the hospital personnel surrounding it. A quick glance over his shoulder had told Colby that the individual in question was now convulsing. Things didn't look too good for the man who always paid with pennies.

In a few seconds, Colby had the room number, and he stepped out of line. The main entrance to the ER was almost completely blocked now with nurses, doctors, security, gurneys…besides, he wanted to discuss all this _Bernie's_ stuff with Charlie. He fingered his back pocket to make sure he was carrying his ID and badge, then strode purposefully away from the desk, toward the bowels of the hospital.

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A courier from a 24-hour service delivered the envelope 10 minutes before print deadline. Managing Editor Scotty Abrams could have sent the statement along to the 24/7 online crew, but he was a dinosaur. He still visited the print warehouse regularly. The smell of the ink, the clanging of metal plates as they were hung, the intricate web of newsprint leading into the press off rolls bigger than his office… this, _this_ was a newspaper, dammit. He rarely got to bellow "STOP THE PRESSES!" anymore, and he missed it. Late-breaking news was typed directly into the website, broadcast to the world sometimes before he had finished reading the telex himself.

God, he hated the internet.

So he chewed on the end of his unlit cigar – that was another thing; in the old days, every newspaper man worth his typewriter was smoking something – and ripped the envelope open. He began reading the contents. Halfway through, his mouth dropped open far enough for the cigar to fall out and he struggled out of his chair and began to stumble through the press room, looking for the best reporter he could find who was still there. "STOP THE PRESSES!", he yelled, waving the page frantically in the air. "STOP THE PRESSES!"

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The first security guard Colby ran into was stationed outside what turned out to be the psychiatric wing. He couldn't leave his post, but he was amiable enough, and tried to give the agent directions to Charlie's room. On the way, he passed a few of the housekeeping and custodial staff – one was even so paranoid he was working in gloves and mask – and contemplated what he knew so far.

Charlie would say there was no such thing as a 'coincidence'. Entirely too many of the victims of this latest influenza outbreak had _Bernie's_ in common. That commonality was one point of a pattern. Colby didn't know exactly where to go from there, though. If he didn't personally know any of the ill people, and heard a bunch of folks got sick after eating at the same place, he would automatically assume some kind of salmonella, or food poisoning, and make it a point never to go to that restaurant himself. Yet what he had witnessed of this illness just didn't fit the profile.

He remembered his own bout with food poisoning, almost a full year before. It had been the Memorial Day weekend, and the team had scored big. Not only were they not on call – it was a three-day weekend. He and David had stopped at a little place in East L.A. for lunch after a witness interview. Dave had stuck with something predictable, and boring – grilled cheese, Colby thought now – but _he_ had decided to start the celebratory weekend a little early. Seafood salad. The waitress swore up and down the crab and shrimp were fresh, local, out-of-this-world.

Around 7 that evening, Colby was ready to agree with the last part of that description. He'd never been so sick in his life, and it lasted the whole damn weekend. Sure, he had a headache – slight fever, too – but mostly he remembered it as a decidedly…_gastrointestinal_…experience. He spent most of Saturday sitting on the john with a trash can in his lap, since it was the only way he could deal with both issues at once. By Monday, the worst of it was over, but he was exhausted. Slept all day – and was afraid to eat for another week. In all the time he was with Charlie and Alan today, there had been no complaints of nausea. His keen sense of the obvious would have picked up on diarrhea, too. But if salmonella wasn't linking _Bernie's_ diners together, what was? Colby was hoping Charlie was feeling a little better, and would have some ideas of his own.

The second time he ran into a security guard, he again showed his I.D. and said he had to talk to his hospitalized 'partner' about a case. Hell, it was just a tiny stretch…Charlie worked with them, didn't he? Ergo, he was a partner. Turned out this guard was retired LAPD, and he actually walked Colby most of the way to Charlie's room. The guard's radio sounded when they were almost there, though, and he had to take off. Charlie's room was just a few steps away, now, so Colby pushed on by himself.

He opened the door slowly, peeking inside the dimly-lit room to see if Charlie was sleeping. The first thing to really capture his attention was the IV stand at the side of the bed; or more accurately, the dangling tubes that nearly reached the floor. In fact, they probably would have, but were twisted in the fabric of a hospital gown. The bed itself was a tangle of sheets – and empty. Colby stood at the end for a moment and then squatted to look more closely at the gown. Sure enough, it was dotted with blood – probably from Charlie ripping out his own IV.

He straightened with creaky knees and examined the dark recesses of the room's border. "Charlie?" he called quietly. He didn't see or hear anything, so he decided to find a nurse's station and risk their wrath at his midnight visit. _Someone_ had to tell them Charlie was missing. As he turned to leave, however, he spied another door, nearly closed. Ah. That had to be the bathroom.

He approached almost silently, and pulled the door open a few more inches so that he could peek around the corner. "Charlie?" he repeated. This time, there was a definite answering sniff, as well as some rather loud and congested breathing. Colby had stalked his prey.

He didn't want to startle Charlie or hurt his eyes, so he backed away far enough to reach the light switch on the wall next to the main door. He flipped it on, and overhead fluorescents began to hum and pop. He returned to the bathroom door and let the outside light filter in as he pushed it open cautiously. "Dude," he whispered. "You in here?"

At first he was relieved to see the empty toilet – he wasn't really looking for something that up-close and personal – but he was soon flustered when the sniffling grew louder and there was still no sign of Charlie. He stepped further into the bathroom then, and followed the trail of blood on the floor. Kneeling down, Colby opened the cupboard under the sink and was stunned nearly speechless when he finally spied the professor. At the best of times, Charlie was a small guy; short and skinny. He'd been ill for a few days, so he was even skinnier, now; somehow, he had managed to jam himself onto the bottom shelf of the cupboard. His curly head rested on a roll of toilet paper. Both hands were wrapped around his naked torso – the bleeding one on top. He was clothed only in his boxers, and he was crying.

Colby stalled for time, reaching up to flip the bathroom lights on. When he looked into the cupboard again, he had finally found his voice. "Charlie. What the hell are you doing?"

Tears spilled from Charlie's dark, miserable eyes. "Th…they don't l-l-love m-m-me," he stammered. His voice was so strained and quiet Colby had to lean forward to catch everything. He could feel the heat radiating from Charlie's body.

"Charlie, c'mon," he started, but Charlie was talking again.

"D-d-donny left, and D-d-dad…I…I wanna go home, and th-th-th-they left me…." He stopped talking, overcome with tears again.

Colby clucked compassionately. "Aw, Charlie, man, that's not true." Charlie was obviously beyond really following a conversation, so Colby hesitated before explaining where everyone was, and why.

He was still contemplating his next move when Charlie inched forward a little, practically putting his head in Colby's lap. "Y-y-you came for me, Colby. D-d-do you love m-m-me?"

"Aw, geez..." Colby started to throw his hands up and then found himself wrapping them around Charlie's skinny arms instead. He started tugging gently, trying to get him out of the cupboard, scooting across the floor toward the wall as the extrication got under way. "Come on, Whiz Kid…you know…" – Colby grunted when most of Charlie popped out and he found himself with a lap full of nearly-naked mathematician – "ya know I'm quite…fond…of you."

To his horror, Charlie began to cry again. He and Colby were both facing the sink, now, and Charlie's thin shoulders shook against Colby's chest. "N-n-nobody loves m-m-me," he cried. "Wh-where's Larry? 'M-'M-'Mita…" He struggled weakly against Colby. "I d-d-don't feel g-g-good…"

Colby rolled his eyes over Charlie's head. Something told him the professor was not going to be good for much help tonight. He spied the emergency cord near the toilet and tried to reach far enough to pull the string, nearly dumping Charlie back into the cupboard. "Take it easy," he soothed. "You told us they went to Palomar, remember?"

Charlie either shivered, or was still crying. "P-p-palomar?"

"Yeah," Colby confirmed. "CalTech is sharing some kind-of research thing?" Charlie didn't answer, so Colby kept going. "You said they're driving back tomorrow, and went down yesterday."

Charlie summoned a massive amount of strength from somewhere, and rolled himself off Colby so that he was sitting with his back against the now-closed door, immediately to his left. He blinked owlishly a few times and then grinned. "YESTERDAY!" It would have been a shout if Charlie had much voice left, and Colby started a little. Charlie giggled, and began to warble. "Yesterday….all my tr-troubles seemed so-o far AWAY…."

Colby managed to hook a finger around the emergency light and tugged the string. "Oh, good Lord," he breathed. He shifted around closer to the toilet so that he and Charlie were almost facing each other. "_Stop singing_, dude! Move away from the door – I just pulled the string."

Charlie clamped his mouth shut and his eyes filled with tears again. Colby expected some kind of hurt stammering about his insult to Charlie's singing, but was surprised when Charlie extended his shaking, wounded hand, index finger wavering near Colby's face. Charlie smiled brightly through his tears. "P-pull my finger," he said.

Colby couldn't help himself, and a snort of wild laughter burst from his mouth at the same time that someone tried to push the door open. Charlie flew head-first into Colby, landing with his face in his lap. Colby looked up to see a startled young woman staring at the tableau and blushing furiously. "Oh," she squeaked, starting to back away, "excuse me…"

Colby tried to scamper backwards, or sideways, or anywhere, and wondered why Charlie wasn't moving. _"NO!"_ he yelled after the nurse. "Please, it's not what it looks like!" He finally grabbed Charlie's naked shoulders and rolled him to one side while he scooted the other way. "Damn, he's hot," he mumbled, and the nurse, who had started to approach again, made a noise of distress and started to back off once more. Colby groaned and noted Charlie's closed eyes, his flaccid features – the kid was unconscious again. "NOT _THAT_ WAY!" Colby yelled. "To the touch…I mean, his skin…" The nurse was tiptoeing back, and Colby gave up. "Ah, hell," he muttered.

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_**A/N: And there you have it: Charlie crying in his boxers. I have some tentative plans for the next chapter which involve some equal time for Don's boxers, but since I haven't seen your suggestions yet, that could all change….**_


	6. Bernie's Boxers and Brucella

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem**

_**A/N: This is an INTERACTIVE reader-influenced story. Enter at your own risk. Feel free not to enter at all. **_

**Meanwhile…The Rest Of Us Are Having Fun…**

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**Chapter Five: ****Bernie's, Boxers and Brucella**

Don was too exhausted to sample Charlie's ice cream -- plus, he was morally opposed. He knew that strawberry was Charlie's favorite but that his brother seldom chose that flavor, since Alan despised it. If he had wanted some badly enough to bring it home, Don was not about to dip into it. Besides, Charlie would need the ice cream to soothe his sore throat, when the hospital finally released him. So, after checking on his father, who was sleeping soundly, just as Colby had reported, Don stripped down to his boxers and dropped onto his childhood bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Unfortunately, slumber kept abandoning him. He woke up several times during the night to check on Alan. At one point his father's fever must have spiked, for Don found the bed in wild disarray. Alan had struggled out of his sleep shirt, which lay rumpled on the floor, and attempted to remove the comfortable old pair of sweats he had worn to bed. In the moonlight that entered through the bedroom window, Don could see the fleece pants dangling from one ankle. Alan was coverless on the top of the bed, wearing only his own boxers. Don carefully approached and removed the sweats, tossing them onto the chair on the other side of the bed. Then he laid the back of one hand lightly across Alan's forehead. He was relieved beyond measure to contact cool skin -- the fever must have broken. He wrestled with the sheets and blankets pouring off the end of the bed for a moment, eventually managing to cover Alan again. Then he noticed that the glass on the bedside table was empty; so, he stepped quietly into his father's bathroom and filled it again. He carried the water back to the table and gave the room one last survey before he padded barefoot down the hallway to his own room.

He tried to go back to sleep, but finally picked up his cell and called the Bureau, informing the duty officer that he wouldn't be coming in, and was taking a personal day. Then he had Directory Assistance connect him to the hospital. At length he was put through to a nurse on Charlie's floor. Don was lying on his back in the dark, but he sat up and frowned when she reported that his brother's temperature had increased. Charlie had become delirious and ripped out his IV. Currently they were using ice packs to lower the fever. "Can I come and see him?" Don asked, wondering what he would do with his father if she said yes. In the end, he didn't have to make that decision. She assured him that everything that _could_ be done, _was_ being done, that Charlie needed his rest; and informed him gently that he would not be admitted until visiting hours began at 9 a.m.

Don sighed, disconnected and settled back in the bed -- more wide-awake than before. He tossed and turned and worried, and watched the old digital clock. Somewhere between 3 and 4 a.m., he actually fell asleep again -- but it was short-lived. He had been lying awake for quite some time when he heard the morning newspaper thump against the front door around 5:15. He yawned and lay there a few more minutes before he gave up. At 5:30, groaning quietly, he levered himself up. He would check on Alan once more and then head downstairs to retrieve the paper. He didn't bother dressing, fully intending to snatch the paper off the porch in the dawn's early light and bring it back upstairs.

When he pulled open the front door five minutes later, Colby was just starting to straighten, newspaper in hand. The junior agent found himself in the uncomfortable position of looking his team leader directly in the crotch. It took a few seconds for him to focus on the words, but eventually he figured out that 'Lethal Weapon' was emblazoned across the front of Don's white boxers. Colby jerked back so quickly he fell off the edge of the front stoop, landing on his rear in the dewey grass. He lifted shocked eyes to meet shocked eyes. "That is just… so..._wrong_...", he said quietly.

Don glanced down at his shorts and reddened furiously, lowering his hands to cover himself while he contemplated Colby. "Shut-up," he growled. "Robin gave these to me. Right before she left last week for her sister's." He turned away from the door abruptly and jogged into the living room, grabbing a decorative pillow off the end of the couch. By the time he got back to the front door, holding the pillow strategically, Colby was back up and brushing the back of his jeans with one hand. "What the hell are you doing out here at this hour anyway?" Don demanded.

Colby looked at the pillow, then the porch light, and finally the sky. "Um...I couldn't sleep? And I think I have some information."

Don backed toward the stairs. "Well come in, then," he responded grudgingly. He thought longingly of his bedroom. "Go on out to the kitchen and start some coffee," he suggested. "I'm gonna...run up and get dressed..."

Colby regarded his feet as he slithered past Don. "Yeah. Thanks for that."

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Sarah stood bored, her arms crossed over the chest of her pastel pink uniform. She and Bernie had been preparing the diner to open for the breakfast crowd when he discovered the lack of milk. It was with effort now that she refrained from rolling her eyes – or smiling – as he raged at her in the kitchen. "You know I count on you for an accurate inventory!" he yelled. "Your resume claims that you have management experience in food service!"

She shifted, moving one hand to a hip and poking him in his broad chest with the index finger of the other. "You checked my references!" she answered. "It's your own damn fault – I'm exhausted! You're too cheap to hire enough help, and you've had me here from sun-up to closing for a solid _month_!"

For a big man, his rapid, snake-like movements always surprised her. A beefy hand shot up to wrap around her finger. The pressure grew painful as his upper lip curled in a snarl. "You _begged_ me for overtime, you little bitch," he countered. "You're lucky I don't fire your ass."

She brought one knee up hard, connecting solidly with his most prized anatomy. His hand released her finger as a grunt of pain escaped him and he attempted to double over – his beer gut prohibited much success in that area. She placed one hand on either side of his neck and pushed, smiling when he lost his balance and an inevitable gravity pulled his bulk to the cheap linoleum. "Don't bother," she huffed, jerking the order pad from her pocket and tossing it to the floor near his head. "I quit."

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Colby was sitting at the kitchen table, frowning, when Don pushed through the swinging door. Although he had regained some composure while changing into his black jeans and black polo, Don was still uncomfortable enough to head directly for the brewing coffee. The pot was obviously not finished yet, but this way he could keep his back to Colby while he waited for it.

After a few seconds, he heard the rattling of the newspaper; then, Colby's low voice. "Don. I think we've got a problem."

That sounded a lot worse than an embarrassing pair of boxers, and captured Don's attention immediately. He turned slowly to face Colby and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his torso. He arched an eyebrow. "What?"

Colby shoved the first section of the newspaper across the table, and Don pushed himself off the counter, letting his arms drop to his sides. He crossed the few feet the the table and leaned over slightly, bracing his hands on the polished wood surface. The 120-point headline hit him first: "**PLANET GREEN LAUNCHES BIOTERRORIST ATTACK ON L.A." **Don leaned over a little further, and read the story:

_Just before deadline yesterday evening, this newspaper received a communicade from the fringe eco-terrorist coalition that calls itself 'Planet Green'. Established in the late 1990s by several UC-Davis drop-outs, the group uses various modes of violence to promote its alleged tenets of living in peace and harmony with our natural environment. Planet Green, heretofore best-known for a botched attempted robbery at the Presidio armory two years ago, in which several key members were killed, claims to have released a bioterroristic agent into the Los Angeles area._

"_The time has come to cull the herd," the statement says in part (see A7 for the complete text). It continues, "For years Planet Green has tried to show you the danger of your way of life. We have tried to make you see that you are killing us all. As you die, you will wish that you had listened." The group does not name the agent released, but claims responsibility for a recent outbreak in the L.A.-area of flulike symptoms. Calls to area hospitals and the Orange County Health Department confirm a sudden influx of influenza cases._

_Planet Green makes no clear demands, and the statement concludes by declaring that a second round of the bacteria was being released "somewhere in L.A.", last night._

Don raised his head to look at Colby, pulling out a chair at the end of the table and sitting heavily. "Shit," he commented. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than for Charlie to have the flu, and he tried to talk himself into it. "There might not be anything to it," he said. "These guys are flakes. They practically telegraphed us date, time and location when they tried to hit the armory. They probably just heard about the outbreak and decided to take credit."

Colby tilted his head, still frowning. "I don't know, Don. That's what I came to tell you – when I went back to the hospital last night I overheard several people talking about eating at _Bernie's Diner_, on the South side. Your Dad said Charlie's been going there a lot, and took him there for breakfast not long ago. Plus there's some ice cream from _Bernie's_ in your freezer." He paled suddenly, his eyes widening. "Oh, damn. Did you eat any?" Don shook his head, and Colby swallowed. "_I_ did," he whispered.

The legs of the chair scraped the floor as Don stood again, running his hand over his head. "Salmonella?" he guessed. "Like the tomatoes, or peppers, or whatever?"

Colby shook his head. "I don't think so – the symptoms aren't right."

Don peered at Colby closely. "How do you feel?"

Colby considered. "Okay. Tired, but I've been up all night." His voice took on a hopeful note. "Maybe there's an incubation period?"

Don nodded. "Yeah," he agreed. "Yeah, sure."

Colby cleared his throat and resumed a businesslike demeanor. "Whatever it is, I think it was released at _Bernie's_."

Don started to walk towards the swinging door, and paused to smile grimly at Colby. "Help yourself to some coffee," he offered. "I'm going to find Charlie's laptop. We need to get the CDC in on this, and I'm pretty sure he has Havercamp's direct line in his address book."

He took another step, but Colby called after him. "Should we call Wright, first?"

"Call him, and David. Tell them to meet us at the office in half-an-hour," Don ordered, and then swore when he remembered Alan. "Shit! What am I gonna do about Dad?"

The door swung open again, and Colby turned to see Alan entering. His eyes were drawn first to the fuzzy slippers, then the knobby knees, and finally the open robe – boxers covered with smiley faces showed plainly through the gap. "What about me?" asked Alan.

"Ah, geez," moaned Colby, turning quickly away and dropping his head into his hands. "What _**is**_ it with you people?"

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Ian Edgarton was silent as he carefully folded the newspaper and shoved it gently to the side. His fingers drummed on the table as he remembered.

Planet Green.

Yes, he remembered. Sure, he was an F.B.I. sniper. His job was to pick off the bad guy – more often that not, that involved a kill shot. Most of the time, he was able to distance himself from it. But this one had been ugly. The kids were so young – 24, 25 and 26. Their deaths had been so unnecessary. It had…affected him. Unable to sleep for days after the shooting, he had even gone to the morgue. He had thought seeing them would help him lay it to rest.

There had been a woman there. Draped over the body of one of the perps, screaming in a primal keening agony that Ian still heard in his nightmares. Ian had been about to leave when she pulled herself off the body. She had stared at his F.B.I. windbreaker a long time, and then she had walked up to him slowly.

"You murder," she had said quietly. "And thou shalt not. Thou shalt not."

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	7. APlanComes2getherAndAnotherFallsApart

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem**

_**A/N: This is an INTERACTIVE reader-influenced story. Enter at your own risk. Feel free not to enter at all. I contemplate your suggestions. Some excite me; some frighten me. Which ones have I chosen?  
**_

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**Chapter Seven: A Plan Comes Together; and Another Falls Apart**

Colby had booted Charlie's laptop and was trying his hand at hacking. Don was again leaning against the counter, sipping from a cup of coffee now, and arguing with Alan, who was seated at the table with a large glass of orange juice in front of him. The elder Eppes sniffed once before presenting his case in a slightly nasal whine. "Donny, I feel much better today. I can stay here by myself. I was home alone yesterday!"

Don snorted, almost blowing coffee all over the room. He swallowed and raised his eyebrows at his father. "Yeah, and look how well _that_ turned out! I'm glad you feel better, Dad, but you're still sick. Your temp is elevated, you're moving like an old man..."

"I _am_ an old man!" Alan interrupted, and Colby snickered behind the computer.

Sensing Don's glare, he glanced up and shrugged apologetically at them both. "Alan, you read the statement. We're not even sure what we're dealing with here; we don't know exactly what to expect. It's not a good idea for you to stay here alone."

His Team Leader nodded. Alan sulked. "Don't call me 'Dad' anymore, young man."

Don smiled behind his coffee mug and Colby's face fell as he looked back at the laptop. "Okay," he said in a small voice. Don wondered if Charlie had been tutoring him on the kicked-puppy persona.

It was certainly effective. Alan rolled his eyes and swallowed some OJ before slithering a hand across the table and patting Colby awkwardly on the arm. "Never mind, son. I'm cranky when I don't quite feel up to par." Colby looked pleased but a little embarrassed, so Alan changed the subject. "Can't crack the password?"

Granger sighed and shook his head. "Nah. This is a pretty ridiculous effort anyway -- like any one of us is going to hack into Charlie's database."

Don set down the mug and frowned. "We just want his address book, for Pete's sake! It's not like we're after Pentagon material!"

Alan rubbed his forehead. "So you just want access to Windows?"

Colby looked up and caught the motion. "You okay?" he asked anxiously. He turned to look at Don. "Dude, you got some Tylenol or something for Dad?"

Alan smiled. "I'm good, boys; just took some before I came down. What have you tried?"

Colby tapped a few more keys. "Charlie's birthday. Amita's birthday. Don's birthday. _Your_ birthday." He lifted his head, his expression hopeful. "Do you know the date of the first time he and Amita..."

"Colby!" growled Don, and Granger shrugged again and looked back at the screen.

"I was just gonna say their first date," he mumbled. "I thought maybe an anniversary..."

"Margaret," stated Alan with conviction. "Stop looking for a numerical password; just type in 'Margaret'."

Colby did and his eyes immediately widened. He looked up at Don with a bright smile. "We're in!" he announced happily.

Don began to come around the table to where Colby was sitting. "Dad, did you know that all along?" he asked.

Alan grinned smugly. "No...but I know your brother." He cleared his throat and shot Don his sternest 'father face'. "I also know whether or not I can stay home alone," he deadpanned.

Don shook his head, trying not to smile. "Find Havercamp's number," he instructed Colby, pulling his iphone from the back pocket of his jeans. He looked at his father and smiled. "I think I'll just get Millie's opinion on that, Dad."

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It was just barely 9:00 a.m. in Atlanta, but Lieutenant Lee Havercamp had been at her desk since 3 a.m., shortly after the publisher of the _Los Angeles Times_ had contacted the 24/7 CDC Emergency Contact Line and faxed Planet Green's missive. She had already spoken with administrators at nearly two dozen L.A.-area hospitals, and found that census numbers were indeed elevated, especially on the South side. Blood tests were not always ordered for patients who were admitted with influenza. The goal was to re-hydrate, lower fevers, treat pain. Unless a patient proved resistant to such treatment, and grew worse while in the hospital, most physicians did not go on many fishing expeditions when it came to a suspected viral condition.

Havercamp had ordered comprehensive blood tests of all patients reporting with flulike symptoms -- admitted or not. Lab technicians were instructed to use Sentinel Laboratory's guidelines -- standardized, practical methods to aid microbiologists in ruling out critical agents. The orders would bog down labs all over the city, and she knew that the sooner CDC agents could identify exactly what they were looking for, the better. One of the hospitals had a fatality already -- someone had died in the emergency room lobby the evening before -- but an autopsy on him might or might not help. No-one at the hospital was even sure why he was there. Apparently the individual was mentally disturbed. He had simply stumbled into a crowded ER and planted himself in the waiting area, talking only to himself. Still, she had ordered a complete post-mortem.

Havercamp and a hand-picked team would leave for L.A. on a CDC jet within the hour. During the trip, she would try to contact Dr. Eppes. He had been an invaluable asset in the past, and as a resident of Los Angeles himself, Havercamp was convinced he would be anxious to help. She was just about to leave for the terminal when her private cell rang. She almost ignored it, but checked the caller display to make sure her daughter wasn't calling with a last-minute problem. When she recognized the "626" area code, she smiled. Dr. Eppes must be calling to volunteer, already. She brought the phone to her ear. "Lee Havercamp," she said. "Dr. Eppes?"

There was a pause. Then another voice answered -- one that was still somewhat familiar. "Dr. Havercamp, this is Don Eppes. Charlie's brother? F.B.I.?"

She nodded. "Of course, Agent Eppes; I remember you well. If you're calling about the bioterrorism threat, I should be there before noon. I'm hoping Dr. Eppes can help us on this."

Another pause. "There could be a problem with that."

The hairs on the back of Havercamp's neck began to tingle and she leaned back in her chair. "Dr. Eppes is compromised?"

She heard Don sigh. "He's pretty sick. He was admitted to the hospital yesterday. My father has been ill as well. Agent Granger thinks he has a lead on the point of origin."

"That's good news," the doctor responded, "although it disturbs me greatly to hear of your family's possible exposure. I've already talked to all the hospitals in the area; find the one with the shortest line -- or take your father to his personal physician -- he needs blood tests. I'll contact the county health department and have a haz-mat team dispatched to the location Agent Granger suspects. Hopefully, by the end of the day, we will know what to look for in your father's blood."

"If he's correct, Agent Granger may have been exposed also. I'll make sure his blood is drawn as well."

"Good," confirmed Havercamp. "Whatever we're looking at could be spread by human contact," she continued, "so you'd better include yourself while you're at it."

Don swore. "It sounds like the entire state of California needs a blood test. Everybody in the office has been exposed -- and not just from Colby. Charlie was there yesterday; that's where he first lost consciousness!"

Havercamp closed her eyes. "It might come to that," she answered quietly. "Let's try to find out what we're dealing with before we start that kind of panic." She paused, opening her eyes again. "What are your brother's symptoms?"

"He has a really high fever," Don answered. "Last night they packed him in ice; it was over 105." He could hear Havercamp's intake of breath while he continued. "He was complaining of back pain, general malaise, a headache. He seemed to have a sore throat. You know...the flu..." he concluded miserably.

Havercamp responded with more confidence than she felt. "We'll deal with this, Agent Eppes. My team and I are on the way."

"Thank-you," he whispered. "Thank-you."

"You're welcome," she said gently. Her tone grew brisk again. "Now let me speak with Agent Granger. I need to get directions for the haz-mat team."

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When Sarah showed up at the apartment that morning and reported her incident with Bernie, Cracker was livid.

Most of the Planet Green leadership was there -- Dawn, Patty, Aaron, Marcus -- as well as several of the newer recruits. There had been a celebratory atmosphere when Sarah arrived. Then she had taken Cracker to one side in the kitchen and delivered her news, and he began shouting at her. "You IDIOT!", he bellowed. He was only a few inches taller than she was, but he stood close enough to her that his anger was intimidating anyway. "We TALKED about this, Sarah! You should have remembered to order extra milk. Tell me you at least remembered to destroy all the ice cream!"

"Of course I did," she snapped back. "What are you so upset about, anyway?"

His upper lip curled in a sneer and he placed his hands on his hips. "You shouldn't have quit your job. We need eyes at _Bernie's_, so we know when they make the connection -- and to make sure the search comes up empty. Now you've given that fat slob the perfect target to point a finger at; I can't believe you were so short-sighted! You're better than this, Sarah."

She turned away, tossing her hair. She would not let him humiliate her in front of the others. "I don't know why you had me dump the milk in the first place," she huffed. "What does it matter what the first point of release was? We haven't told them about the hospital."

Cracker regarded her back as if she was something he just scraped off the bottom of his shoe. "_Because_, Sarah, the damage we do with the _Brucella_ can be magnified tenfold by fear, distrust, wasted resources and delayed treatments while the pigs try to put the pieces together..." He snorted derisively. "Did you drink some of the milk yourself? You didn't used to be this stupid." Several people tittered and she whirled, furious. Before she could defend herself, Cracker continued. "You cannot come back here, or contact any of us -- you have made yourself a liability to our safety. Why don't you go down to our San Diego chapter? Help the Steering Committee plan something of their own to complement our efforts."

Her mouth dropped open and Sarah stormed back to stand in front of Cracker. "No! You can't do this! I've been part of this group almost since the beginning! Joe...Joe would _never_ let you do this!" She looked around frantically at the other leadership; some standing, some sitting at the table. None of them would look at her. She grabbed at Cracker's t-shirt, bunching it in her hand. "Joe must be avenged! We have to plan our..."

Dawn suddenly stepped up and placed her own hand firmly on Sarah's. "Joe is not the issue here," she said firmly, pushing Sarah away from Cracker. "He never was. He was a fool to get himself killed. He took two good men with him, and he compromised our objectives for years. You have been laboring under a delusion, if you think we released the _Brucella_ to avenge Joe."

Sarah stood shocked and silent in the middle of the kitchen. Cracker made a motion with his hand and the others began to shuffle away. At the rear of the line, he stopped to whisper in her ear. "Don't think you can lead them to us, Sarah. We're going deep under to plan our next move -- even you will not be able to find us." He stepped away from her, and spoke more loudly when he turned back at the doorway. "Get out. Go to San Diego, if you know what's good for you. If I see you again in L.A. -- I'll kill you myself."


	8. Connect the Dots

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem**

_**A/N: This is an INTERACTIVE reader-influenced story. Enter at your own risk. Feel free not to enter at all. **_

**And Now, Back To Our Tale…**

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**Chapter Eight: ****Connect the Dots**

Don gave CalSci's Division Chair of Physics, Mathematics, and Astronomy an assignment: Contact Alan's primary care physician and secure bloodwork. Remembering the difficulty Charlie encountered trying to convince Millie he was too busy to chair the PhD admissions committee, Don was fairly certain that she would not be taking "no" for an answer.

He also ordered Colby to get to the office and brief David, A.D. Wright, and anyone else Wright thought should be brought into the investigation. Before Agent Granger left, Don reminded him to get his own blood drawn as soon as possible. He paused at the door as they were both leaving the Craftsman and looked worriedly at Colby. "You still feeling all right?"

Colby grinned. "Yeah, I think so. I mean, I could get freaked out about every little ache that comes my way, but what's the point? We don't know enough about this yet to pin any symptoms on it – but we _do_ know that I haven't slept in almost 30 hours. Plus, you people keep subjecting me to your underwear; that's gotta induce just a little nausea, don't you think?"

Don smiled and pushed Colby the rest of the way out the door. "You don't need to tell the others that part."

Colby waggled his eyebrows. "But Don," he proclaimed innocently. "It's a _briefing_!"

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Amita stood in the bathroom of the hotel and contemplated herself in the mirror. She shivered. She felt absolutely horrible, and didn't look much better.

She had not been feeling all that great when she and Larry left for Palomar – she had let him drive, as well as dominate the conversation ever since they had arrived. She was sure the CalTech people were starting to regret inviting her. She certainly hadn't offered much to the research effort.

The thought of meeting Larry downstairs for breakfast almost made her cry. She wasn't exactly nauseous – but she certainly wasn't hungry, either. She arched her back, trying to stretch the kinks away, and recalled that Charlie had not been feeling very well the last couple of days himself. One of them must have given the other one the flu.

She wondered briefly if she could write an algorithim that proved it was his fault, then decided she was in no condition to try.

She sighed and decided to ease her sore muscles with a hot shower. She _was_ really thirsty, even if she wasn't hungry, so she would stick with something simple – maybe oatmeal, or just toast – and mainline the water and juice. Hopefully the combination of all of the above and the rest of the aspirin she had in her purse would get her through the morning's work. She and Larry planned to leave for L.A. by 2 at the latest.

Thank the Good Lord.

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It was just before 8 when Don arrived at the hospital. Still an hour before visiting hours – but his federal I.D. and the morning edition of the newspaper took care of that. He had no trouble at all getting in to see Charlie.

A hospital employee was just delivering a tray of liquids when Don pushed through the door. She looked at him and smiled. "I'm reluctant to wake him," she shared. "I understand he had a difficult night; he probably hasn't been asleep that long."

Don nodded – and noticed with satisfaction that there was no sign of any ice packed around Charlie's body. "That's what I hear," he answered, walking to the head of the bed and brushing Charlie's curls out of the way so he could lay a hand on his forehead. Warm – definitely warm – but it had been worse last evening while they waited in the ER. He smiled again and turned back toward the young woman. "Just leave it; I'll give him a few more minutes and then wake him, okay?"

"That's fine," she agreed, and hurried out to deliver the remainder of her breakfast trays.

Don ran his hand through his hair and glanced up at Charlie's IV; then he felt his forehead, again. He paced around the perimeter of the room three times and then returned to the bed. This time he lifted the covers, peeking underneath to make sure there was no ice. Charlie's low protest surprised him. "Hey," rasped his brother. "Most people pay good money for that view."

Don dropped the covers and jerked, staggering back half a step. "Shit, Charlie," he breathed, peering at his brother. "You're supposed to be sleeping!"

The youngest Eppes yawned, turning his head slightly away from Don while he did. "That's what _I_ think," he grumbled, turning his head again on the pillow. "They won't leave me alone for five minutes."

Don grinned, resting a hand on the bed rail. "Yeah; I heard you had to be kept on ice last night. That's what I was looking for."

"Ummm," responded Charlie, his eyes drifting closed. "I guess it worked. They took it away, but then somebody came and took a whole gallon of blood." He cracked his eyes and regarded Don with confusion. "Why would they do that?"

Don hoped he could distract his brother until he fell asleep again. "What was your temp the last time they took it?"

"That's another thing," complained Charlie, shifting a little in the bed and closing his eyes again. "They keep coming in here to stick that thing in my ear."

Don waited a few moments but no more information was forthcoming. "Well?" he prodded.

Charlie's eyes opened again, with obvious effort. "I'm tired," he whined, and Don suddenly connected the dots. Charlie was talking -- complaining, whining, bitchy -- he must be feeling better! "102, I think," Charlie finally concluded, and Don's heart fell. Apparently, not that much better.

Charlie's eyes were drifting shut again, and he was fighting the pull of the sleep he so desperately needed. "How's Dad?" he asked, forcing his eyes open a little wider and focusing them on Don.

Don moved a hand to Charlie's shoulder, and started kneading sore muscles gently. "He's feeling better," he was happy to report. "Not exactly 100 percent yet -- Millie's going to spend the day with him."

It was a testament to Charlie's state of being that he didn't even question that. Ordinarily Millie's taking a day off from CalSci would have flummoxed him, Don was sure. Now, he just nodded sloppily. "Guh," he mumbled, and Don interpreted that as "good".

He massaged Charlie's shoulder a few more times and then patted him softly on his stubbled cheek. "Get some sleep, Charlie." Later, he would have to come back -- perhaps with Lee Havercamp. Charlie would have to be told about the almost-certain bioterrorism, and it was a conversation Don did not happily anticipate. He watched his brother for a few more moments and started to leave, convinced he had finally been lulled to sleep.

He was surprised again when Charlie suddenly reached up and made contact with his arm, his hand flopping lethargically onto the bed. "Hey," Charlie said, eyes at half-mast and glued on Don once more. "Was Colby here last night?"

Don frowned. "He was in the ER waiting room with us for awhile, before he took Dad home -- why?"

Charlie managed to shrug even while lying flat on his back. "I had the strangest dreams about him..."

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Sarah stood across the street from _Bernie's_ and chewed a fingernail nervously. She had gone back to bat her eyelashes a few times and get her job back; surely that would make Cracker happy. It was imperative that Cracker let her back into the group, back into leadership. She had renounced her Midwestern roots almost six years ago, when she had started living exclusively with Joe and the others. Planet Green was her family, now. These people were all she had, and Cracker simply _could not_ take take away from her.

The scenario that had greeted her, as she rounded the last corner before the diner, was indeed disturbing. Yes, the press release had hit the streets several hours before, and was already being picked up by national wires. But how on earth had they connected the outbreak to _Bernie's_, already? The diner was swarming with masked and gloved, jumpsuited men and women who were obviously searching for something dangerous. Bernie, the fat slob, stood in front of the large picture window, his attention morbidly locked on the activity inside. Despite his girth, Sarah didn't see him for a moment – he was almost blocked by a large haz mat van from the county.

She wasn't attracting any undue attention – there were several people on the street, watching, speaking in hushed whispers – but still she backed into the doorway of a flower shop that was still closed. She fumbled in her purse for her prepaid cell phone, and entered the number for Cracker's. When there was no answer, she tried Dawn; then Marcus, and Aaron. Had they all left the loft already? Had they slithered underground without her, as Cracker had said they would?

A mix of emotions swelled within her. At once she wanted to sound a warning, and lead the F.B.I. to them herself. She had nowhere to go; her home was with the group, in whatever safe house they were currently occupying. They had deserted her, stranded her, after all she had done for them. After her years of sacrifice.

And they refused to avenge Joe. Sweet, loyal Joe, whose politics were the purest she had ever known. After his murder, she and Cracker and Dawn had conducted extensive research into the pigs responsible for his death. For two years, she had waited impatiently for Planet Green to exact retribution. But now, it seemed that Cracker no longer cared about Joe. He had deserted Joe as certainly as he had abandoned Sarah.

She didn't know what to do, until God intervened. A black sedan eased up to the curb, and she shrunk back into the doorway further. She didn't even have to look at the plates to tell that this was a government vehicle. Sure enough, doors began to open – both in the front, one in the rear – and windbreaker-clad agents began to emerge. The driver was stocky, white, muscular; he reminded her of a football player. Getting out of the vehicle nearest her was a thinner, bald black man.

Her eyes widened and she almost made a sound when she recognized the dark exotic features of the man who stepped out of the back seat. He turned his head toward the white man and said something. The black man crossed in front of the car and the three held up their badges to halt traffic, and began to jog across the street.

She would know his face anywhere. She had even been this close to him once before; he had come to the morgue, to gloat over Joe's carcass. God had just dropped the murdering Ian Edgarton into her lap, and suddenly all her decisions were made.

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_**A/N: How did Amita get sick? Has she been exposed, or is she just pregnant? What will Sarah do now? Is it possible for The Cat to single-whump, or will Charlie develop complications?**_


	9. Slow and Steady

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem re all Numb3rs characters and characterizations. The "main hospital" featured in this fanFICTION is a work of FICTION and does not really exist in any location other than my mind.**

_**A/N: This is an INTERACTIVE reader-influenced story. As such, The Cat cannot be blamed for anything. Ever. **_

**And Now, Back To Our Tale…**

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**Chapter Nine: ****Slow and Steady**

Don caught up with the rest of his team at _Bernie's_. There were two haz mat vans in front of the diner, along with several police cars; officers were having to control both foot and vehicle traffic. Don had seen David and Colby's car across the street, but had to travel nearly a block beyond the diner before he was able to park himself. He climbed out of the SUV and backtracked on foot to the diner. When he arrived, he was slightly surprised when he recognized Ian Edgarton with Colby and David – the three of them were talking with an overweight man in a tight white t-shirt and white jeans, his belly straining against a white apron. Undoubtedly, the proprietor. Don stopped before he reached the group, at the back of the first haz mat van, and peered inside, flashing his badge. "Anything?"

A technician was sitting in the back of the van. Samples from inside the diner would have some tests performed here, on the spot. They would then be transported to a lab for further testing. The woman looked up, and spoke from behind a mask, shaking her head. "We've got nothing," she informed him. "I don't know – this guy passed his inspection with no trouble less than a month ago. How good is your intel, anyway?"

"Just do what the CDC asked you to do," retorted Don, a little stung. He backed away from the van and located his team again on the sidewalk in front of the diner. They were no longer talking to the owner. David and Colby were talking to each other; Ian stood a few feet to the left of them, staring morosely at his feet. Ever since the Crystal Hoyle incident, before Megan had quit and moved to D.C., the air was always slightly charged between the two men, and Don approached warily.

He stood between Ian and his agents. He lifted his chin in greeting. "Edgarton."

Ian looked up, and his eyes crinkled in a smile; a strained smile, but still, a smile. "Eppes. Sorry to hear about Charlie."

Don nodded once. "Thanks." He glanced at Granger. "Wright wants a sniper on this?"

Edgarton snickered, and Don looked back. Ian held up a hand. "I'm not here in my 'official' capacity, Eppes."

Sinclair entered the conversation. "He just showed up at the office and volunteered to work on the case – wherever we need him."

Don, still watching Ian, raised an eyebrow but didn't say a word.

Edgarton sighed, and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He took half a step closer to the group. "Look," he said, addressing mostly Don, "I know a lot about Planet Green. After…the armory…I was on administrative leave for awhile. Even after my kill shots were justified, it took me a few weeks to get myself together. While I was off, I was pretty heavily researching the movement."

"Was it your first kill?" Colby asked softly.

Ian shook his head. "Nah. Never really figured out why this one hit me as hard as it did. Maybe because the kids were so young." He glanced at Don, again. "Bradford didn't really help me much with that."

Don was surprised again. "You've seen Bradford? As a patient?"

Edgarton laughed. "Come on, Eppes. I mean, dealing with _your_ issues is probably a full time job for him now, but back then he was a _department_ shrink. Lots of us have seen him."

Colby and David took care to look only at each other while they smiled, but Don had the good grace to be chagrined. "Yeah, yeah," he grinned. "So who's the guy you were interviewing when I got here?"

Colby answered for all of them, frowning slightly. "Bernie. Listen, Don, I don't know if this means anything, but he said that when he got here this morning all the milk was gone."

Don furrowed his brow. "What?"

David confirmed Colby's report. "Ice cream, too," he added, "although he didn't discover that until after the incident."

"Which was…?" Don prompted.

"The lead waitress, sort-of a quasi manager…" -- Colby looked at his notebook – "… 'Sarah Davis'. He got into it with her because she let the place run out of milk. He claims she physically assaulted him, and then quit." He looked up from the notebook. "And get this – she's only worked here for about three weeks. He said she had good references, but they were all out of town. Don, if Planet Green put her here, anybody in the organization could have been set up as her references."

"Plus," David added, "he said she wanted overtime. Worked all three meals – just took a couple of hours off in the afternoons. She's worked six-days-a-week since she was hired, and only took Sundays off because the diner was closed."

Don looked at Ian. "Your research find a 'Sarah'?"

Edgarton shrugged. "If she was a plant for Planet Green, she wouldn't use her real name. Hell, she probably hasn't used it for years – may not even remember it. He's going to come down and look at the mug shots we've compiled of known PG operatives, and see if he can recognize her."

Don nodded. "Good," he started, but was interrupted by the vibration of the phone he'd been carrying in his pocket ever since he broke the clip on the back of the case. He pulled it from his jeans and brought the cell to his ear. "Eppes."

"Havercamp," returned Lee.

Don glanced at his watch. Almost 10 a.m., now. "Have you landed already?"

"No," she answered, "I'm calling from the aircraft. Where are you?"

"The suspected location," Don said wearily, "but it's clean so far. They tell me this guy just passed his inspection clean less than a month ago."

Havercamp's reply was clipped, businesslike. "I've got something," she said, and Don perked up but remained silent. "The hospital with the fatality last night – St. Michael's – there's been another. A young girl, around two hours ago." Don closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed. Charlie was in St. Michael's. He almost missed some of Havercamp's report, an odd buzzing suddenly in his ears, but eventually it cleared. "…cororner's office is on it now," she was concluding. "I've had Atlanta fax them a list of the top bacteria on our bioterrorism 'watch list': _Anthrax_, the _Plague_, _Brucella_ – they'll be trying to rule those out, first."

Don felt Colby watching him and glanced in his direction in time to see the junior agent rub his forehead, as if he had a headache. Don made a connection and his eyes widened. "Ice cream," he said into the phone.

Havercamp waited half a beat. "I beg your pardon?"

Don, walking back toward the haz mat van, almost cut her off. "Listen, I gotta find somebody. Call me when you land."

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She didn't have a car.

It was too much of a hassle when you were under – things like licenses, insurance, simple traffic tickets; they could ruin everything. So she and most of the other Planet Green leadership stuck to public transportation.

There was plenty of membership that still lived in the world, however. Guilt-ridden pseudo-revolutionaries that supported them financially from their establishment paychecks. Like Andi. Andi had lived with them in the commune, sleeping with both Cracker and Joe, until she caught wind of the Presidio plans. Then she had run like a scared little girl, unwilling to place herself in the line of fire should something go wrong – which it unfortunately did. Andi had maintained clandestine contact, however, and was a good resource now. She had shared Joe with Sarah. She had posed as one of Sarah's references when she had been planted at _Bernie's_. She passed Sarah a couple of hundred whenever they met. She could help now; if Cracker hadn't gotten to her first.

It was dangerous, just showing up at Andi's place of employment. Andi's "former" ties with Planet Green were known; since the communicade, they were probably watching her. This is why they had the prepaid cells. Calls could not be traced.

It took Andi too long to answer, and she sounded scared when she did. Only Planet Green people called her on this cell, so she knew when it sounded in the bottom of her purse who it was. Early that morning, after the F.B.I. agents had questioned her, trying to determine PG's current location, she had considered throwing the phone away. Now, she wished she had. What if it had sounded off earlier, alerting her coworkers to its existence? It was just dumb luck that she had taken a ridiculously early lunch hour. Although the visit of the F.B.I. was brief, and she had little difficulty convincing them that she hadn't seen or heard of anyone related to Planet Green since before the Presidio incident two years before, it had shaken her to the core. This was why she had left in the first place; she liked her normal life. Working and living and spending more money than she should, just like everyone else. She didn't have it in her, the _Angela Davis_ gene – she could never live as Sarah, Cracker, Dawn and the others did. She had been foolish to maintain clandestine contact with them, to support them financially. She let the call go to voice mail – but there was another, immediately after. She let that one go as well.

Finally, the third time in five minutes that the phone began to trill, she picked up. Others at the outdoor café were looking at her over their mid-morning cups of coffee, so _not_ answering the cell was calling more attention to her than answering it would. "Yes?" Andi whispered into the phone.

"I need your help." Sarah's low voice floated over the phone and Andi squeezed it a little tighter. "Cracker cut me loose."

Andi's eyes widened. She certainly hadn't been expecting _that_. "What?"

"I need money," Sarah continued. "As much as you can spare."

Andi shook her head even though Sarah could not see her. "We can't meet. They've sent people to talk to me already."

"Drop it at the usual place. I need enough for a car. Or cabfare; I need to follow someone."

Andi remembered Sarah as one of the most fanatical; especially after Joe's death. She fervently hoped Sarah wasn't coming after her. She thought quickly, knowing that coming to Sarah's aid now would be an insurance policy, of sorts. "I can get 500," she finally said. "I'm on my lunch break now. I can have it there within the hour."

"Make sure you're not followed," Sarah warned. "If you pick up a tail, try again after work."

Andi let her gaze roam over the horizon, searching for men in suits. She swallowed thickly, and hung up the phone.

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Charlie was awakened for lunch by a pert young thing who was sticking something in his ear. He moaned, and tried to roll away, craving more sleep. The nurse withdrew the thermometer and chirped brightly. "Time for lunch, Dr. Eppes! We have lime gelatin, a lovely beef broth, and a simply _divine_ cranberry juice. Would you care for anything else?"

Charlie blinked up at her and frowned. "I want a ribeye," he answered. "Why won't you people feed me?"

She smiled and pushed a button on the side bed panel, and the head of the bed began to slowly raise. "Just a precaution, just a precaution."

"But I'm _hungry_," he glared, as he floated to a 60-degree angle in the bed.

"As soon as the doctor changes your orders, I can get you something else," she soothed. "Let's try and get this temperature down, shall we?"

Charlie picked up the cranberry juice and took a sip, then returned it to the tray. "What do you expect _me_ to do about it?"

She clucked in reprimand as he ignored the rest of his…lunch. "Plenty of fluids, Dr. – you know the drill."

He reached reluctanty for the spoon. "I'm not that kind of doctor," he sulked.

She smiled brightly again and ignored him. "Drink up, now. If your fever doesn't increase, I'll be getting you up for a while this afternoon – how does that sound?"

"Great," mumbled Charlie after blowing on his spoonful of broth to cool it. "Put me in a wheelchair so I can roll down to McDonald's® and get some food."

She laughed and turned to leave, just as Don and Lt. Havercamp appeared in the doorway. "Ah, you have visitors! Perhaps they can improve your mood!" She scribbed something on a scrap of paper, shoved it in her pocket and squeezed past them to exit. "I expect that all gone when I get back!" she called from the doorway.

Charlie looked pleadingly at Don. "Did you bring me any food?"

Lee Havercamp answered for him. "I'll speak with your doctor before I leave and see if we can't bump it up a notch. Now that we know what we're dealing with…"

Charlie interrupted, having finally truly focused on Havercamp. "Lee? Lee Havercamp?" The spoon clattered to the tray and he looked again at Don. This time fear was apparent in his eyes. "Oh, this _so_ cannot be good."


	10. The Second Whump

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem re all Numb3rs characters and characterizations. The "main hospital" featured in this fanFICTION is a work of FICTION and does not really exist in any location other than my mind.**

_**A/N: This is an INTERACTIVE reader-influenced story. As such, The Cat cannot be blamed for anything. Ever. **_

**And Now, Back To Our Tale…**

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**Chapter Ten: ****The Second Whump**

Don smiled with more conviction than he actually felt and casually placed Charlie's laptop on the bedside table, along with a stack of files. "On the contrary, Bro," he started, "now that we know what we're dealing with, we can fix it." He looked meaningfully at Lee Havercamp. "Right, Doc?"

She was staring so intently at Charlie that she had to drag her gaze away from him for a moment to look at Don, and then returned her attention to Charlie, smiling. "It certainly helps," she answered – not exactly the commitment Don was looking for. His heart rate increased at her next words. "Are you having difficulty breathing, Dr. Eppes?"

Charlie's left hand fumbled around on the bed and came up holding oxygen tubing. "I was a little short of breath and they turned on the O2," he answered, not looking at either of them. Don started to tell him it would probably work better if Charlie actually left it on, but Charlie started a pre-emptive mutter before he could speak. "I felt better, so I took it off. It makes my nose itch."

Havercamp shook her head and started to push the chair near Charlie's bed around so that she could sit and face him. "Here, I'll get that," insisted Don. After he made sure that the lieutenant was comfortable, he perched on the end of Charlie's bed.

The doctor simply raised an eyebrow and didn't say a word. Charlie interpreted the expression and sullenly situated the oxygen on his face again, inserting the nasal canula and hooking the tubing over his ears. "Tell me," he ordered, staring at Don.

Don tossed a folded section of newspaper at Charlie gently. "There was a statement in the _Times_ this morning. Planet Green is claiming responsibility for releasing a bioterroristic agent in Los Angeles."

"I _knew_ it wasn't good," Charlie interspersed, shaking open the paper and beginning to read. "Go on," he instructed.

Havercamp took over. "Your brother can fill in all the blanks later. Blood tests on…blood tests have confirmed that we are dealing with the bacteria _Brucella_. The symptoms of _Brucellosis_ are very similar to influenza, but can become more severe, according to the amount of the bacteria ingested, length of exposure, the individual's unique immune system…"

Charlie put the paper down and Don could see that he had paled a little. "Did someone die?" he asked, and Don grimaced. Trust the genius to pick up on the unsaid.

Lee Havercamp tried to put a positive spin on things. "Yes, but as I indicated, they were extreme cases. One was in very poor condition, both physically and mentally; the other just lost her spleen after an automobile accident eight months ago – she simply did not have the immune system to fight this off." She leaned forward a little, and looked at Charlie seriously. "Neither situation applies to you. I've already spoken with your physicians, as well as the doctors caring for other patients with similar symptoms. The CDC monitors _Brucella_, and we have protocol in place. You'll be started on an antibiotic cocktail of doxycycline and rifampin right away. Treatment should be complete within six weeks."

Charlie made a sound of distress and pushed his head back into the pillow, staring at the ceiling. He swallowed. "Dad," he whispered. "The elderly…"

Don patted the leg under the covers and reassured him. "We've got good news there, Buddy. Dad's bloodwork showed an elevated white blood cell count, but no _Brucella_. I talked to him five minutes ago, and he sounds a little better than he did this morning; looks like he's just got the flu!"

Charlie closed his eyes. "Thank God," he breathed.

Don smiled. "I hear ya. Of course, having the flu means that he can't come and visit you, so _he's_ not very happy!"

Charlie's mouth twitched, but he didn't quite manage a smile. Opening his eyes again, he inhaled deeply, which caused a brief coughing attack. Lee Havercamp offered him a drink from the water pitcher on his table, which he gratefully received. When Charlie was able, he began speaking again. "Where did I get it? How is it spread? Should you be here?"

"There's little chance of human-to-human transmission," answered Havercamp. She smiled and sat back in her chair. "There is a three-day window for sexual transmission, but even that is relatively rare. Your brother's team has been able to verify the source – a diner on the South side. We suspect that someone from Planet Green was working there and infiltrating the milk supply. We're certain that the ice cream supply was contaminated."

Charlie looked at Don. His breathing was growing more ragged, even with the oxygen. "The ice cream?" he asked. "_Bernie's_?"

Don nodded, and started with the good news first. "If you hadn't had some at home in the freezer, we wouldn't know that much – all the ice cream and milk was gone this morning when Bernie opened up, so we didn't actually find anything on site. At least not in the food – some of the utensils and equipment are still being tested." He sighed, knowing there was no way to make the next part sound any better than it was. "Unfortunately, Colby ate some of your ice cream last night when he took Dad home. His blood shows the bacteria."

Charlie's eyes widened and he looked at Havercamp. "Oh, no!"

She lifted a hand to calm him. "He'll be fine. He cannot spread it to others, so he can even continue working while he takes prophylactic antibiotics – a three-week course should prevent any severe symptoms from developing."

What remaining color there was suddenly drained from Charlie's face, and he looked desperately at Don. "Oh, my God."

Don's brow furrowed. "What? You heard Lee, Colby will be fine."

"I…I…" Charlie glanced almost guiltily at Lee. "Would you get me…get me…" – he seemed to be racking his brain to come up with something, and growing more upset by the second.

Lt. Havercamp took pity on him and stood. "I need to speak with your nurse. I'd like to see your last set of vitals," she said. "I'll see about getting you put on a regular diet, as well."

"Yes!" gasped Charlie. "Okay, yes. That's what I meant."

Don exchanged a quick glance with Havercamp as she passed by him; he had no idea what was freaking Charlie out so much. He waited until Lee had left the room and then put his hand on Charlie's leg again. "What the hell?"

Charlie looked like he was going to cry. "Donny, you've got to find Amita."

Don relaxed marginally. "Is that all? Geez, Chuck, hold your horses. She and Larry should be starting back any time. She'll be able to visit tonight."

Charlie reached out a hand and barely brushed Don's arm before it flopped back to the bed. "No," he moaned, "no…"

He started to wrestle with the oxygen tubing on his face and Don stood quickly, moving to the head of the bed. He grabbed Charlie's hand in both of his own. "Hey, knock it off. What's wrong with you, anyway?"

Charlie's color was coming back; in fact, Don thought he might be blushing. "Donny," Charlie whispered, looking at him beseechingly and then quickly away, at nothing. "Sh- she said th-that I could in-infect…"

Don suddenly knew what Charlie was trying to say, and was torn between laughing and…laughing harder. "Charlie," he snickered, dropping his brother's hand, "Lt. Havercamp said that hardly ever happens. There's only a three-day window. Since you ate at _Bernie's_ a lot, we don't really know exactly when you were exposed…" Don made another connection and paused, his smile disappearing. "Did Amita ever go to the diner with you?"

He didn't think Charlie's face could get any redder or look any more miserable. "No," his brother answered, shaking his head a little. He looked at the wall opposite Don as he continued to speak. "But we…every day. Sometimes…twice…"

His head was turned and he was speaking quietly, but still Don heard. He stood stunned. Was Charlie saying he and Amita engaged in sexual relations every day? Sometimes twice? Apparently, his little brother had a lethal weapon of his own. Don felt his own face growing red. "Twice?" he squeaked.

Charlie shuddered and one hand fluttered to his chest, which he began rubbing absently. "You've got to test Amita," he repeated, finally looking at Don. He thrashed in the bed a little, finally managing to stick one ankle out the side, as if trying to get up.

Don cleared his throat and pulled himself together. "Yeah," he said, staring at Charlie's ankle, "okay. Okay. I'll…take care of it." He frowned. "Your ankle's swollen."

Charlie shrugged. "I know. They wouldn't let me get up because…ow…"

Don took his eyes off Charlie's ankle and looked at his face. Charlie's eyes were squeezed shut and his hand was on his chest again. "Chuck?"

Charlie's breathing was becoming more erratic. "Like an elephant…" he said, patting his own chest lightly.

Don pressed the call button for the nurse and let his hand drop onto Charlie's shoulder. He squeezed affectionately. "Just take it easy, Buddy. Take it easy." Charlie tried to curl onto his side, and Don pushed the call button again.

Where the hell _was_ everybody?

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The bowling alley was large, and popular with the younger crowd. There was a big room near the rear of the building full of lockers that were rented out. Sarah was relatively certain that other people left bowling balls, shoes, maybe team shirts, in theirs. Her bag contained a few hundred in emergency cash – hopefully supplemented by Andi – as well as a change of clothing, a black wig, and a pair of cheap reading glasses she had picked up in a pharmacy.

When Cracker had cut her loose, she had a small amount of cash in her bag; she was paid the day before, and had intended to put the money in the communal kitty. Instead, she used it to tail Ian Edgarton for a few hours. It was awkward, and expensive. Tailing someone in a cab was not as easy as they made it look in the movies. If you were too frantic in your bids to make one stop for you, it drew unwanted attention. Since she had recognized him, she had to assume that he would also recognize her, from their brief meeting two years ago over Joe's dead body. She did not yet have a disguise, and was loathe to tip him off by jumping up and down in the street, waving her arms and screaming.

At length, she got lucky. A taxi rolled to a stop not far from her hiding place in the flower shop doorway, managing to snag a parking place just a few car lengths behind the feds' vehicle. At first the driver told her he was there to pick someone up already, but the hundred she flashed in his face convinced him to flip the "In Use" sign. She paid him almost a hundred more to just sit and wait for something to happen. Finally, something simultaneously good -- and bad -- happened. The stocky white man and his bald partner began to jog across the street to their car – but the murderer she wanted to follow took off on foot down the street, in the company of another fed who had arrived later.

The cab had to execute a u-turn to follow the Chevrolet Suburban, and she slunk low in the back seat so as not to be noticed. Both F.B.I. vehicles returned to the Wilshire Blvd. field office and disappeared into the parking garage. She paid her driver and exited the cab, moving to sit on a secluded bench where she could watch both the front of the building and the parking garage exit. She wasn't sure exactly what she was waiting for – but subterfuge and preemptive research had long been a way of life.

She and Cracker had found out a few things about this man already. They had not openly attended Joe's funeral, suspecting that feds would be watching, but they had perched on a hillside with a direct view of the cemetery and watched the graveside service through binoculars. There had been the expected men in black; but this one was there also. He was leaning against a car at least half a mile away from the service, in jeans and a t-shirt, his dark hair blowing in the dry wind that Sarah thought idly might be coming from her heart. Cracker had shouldered his old Nikon, with its telephoto lens, and snapped his picture.

Ed-something. He was a sniper, and not assigned to any one office. A specialist, brought in to murder legally, brutally. Remembering that now, Sarah knew that the L.A. field office had called him in to kill the rest of Planet Green. She sat, and seethed. Eventually, the Suburban exited the parking garage again; she knew it was the same one, for she had memorized the plate -- 4PC1086. This time Edding…Edgar…Edgarton! was not inside with the dark-haired driver, so she let it go. She rose from the bench and paced a little, finally deciding that she needed to get inside. She had to discover where the killer was located in the building; had to find out if there were any obvious security holes. To do that, she needed her disguise, and Andi's money.

She boarded the next bus, which was traveling in the wrong direction for the bowling alley – but that was good, in case there was a camera somewhere taking pictures. She transferred three times, and walked the last mile. She could have taken the final bus all the way – but she wanted to think.

Sarah had plans to make.

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A flurry of activity ended with Charlie sitting up at an almost 45-degree angle, on increased oxygen flow. His eyes were closed and his brow furrowed in pain. Dr. Havercamp leaned to speak in a quiet voice directly into his ear, and he nodded almost imperceptibly. She turned and almost stepped on Don, who was right behind her.

She lifted a brow. "Sitting up will ease the pain," she informed him quietly.

Don frowned. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Lt. Havercamp didn't smile, which was not a good sign. "It looks like pericarditis," she answered. "A bacterial infection of the lining of the heart – the pericardium."

Don swallowed, glanced at Charlie and stepped a little father away from the bed. Havercamp came with him. "But now that they know, and have him on the meds, it'll get better – right?"

Lee reached up to lightly touch Don's arm and guide him toward the door. "We should let him try to sleep," she said.

Don balanced his weight over his feet and stubbornly refused to move until she answered him. He rephrased the question. "In a few hours the meds will kick in and he'll start to improve?"

Lt. Lee Havercamp raised and lowered one shoulder in an almost-helpless gesture. "I hope so."


	11. It's All in the Details

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem re all Numb3rs characters and characterizations. The "main hospital" featured in this fanFICTION is a work of FICTION and does not really exist in any location other than my mind.**

_**A/N: This is an INTERACTIVE reader-influenced story. As such, The Cat cannot be blamed for anything. Ever.**_

_**A/N #2: "Reader Traffic" is at once a wonderful and a horrendous thing. For instance, I would like to say "**__**vit**__**a**__**yu!", and "diak**__**u**__**yu tob**__**i**__**/vam" to my lone reader in the Ukraine. (Mini-disclaimer: Any and all translation insults are unintentional and the sole responsibility of the Internet.) On the horrendous side, we have that tell-tale graph, which shows a daily decline in readership for this story. Are you boring yourselves? Are you sulking when your idea is not chosen right away? These are the possibilities I contemplate in the wee hours of the morn.**_

**And Now, Back To Our Tale…**

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**Chapter Eleven: **_**It's All In the Details**_

Don waited until he and Lt. Havercamp were six inches outside Charlie's room. The door stood slightly ajar, so he spoke quietly, but with feeling. "You said he wasn't in a high risk category," he started accusingly.

Lee placed a hand on his arm and encouraged him to step with her a few feet farther down the hallway. "There could be any number of explanations for this. If he has eaten in the diner frequently, in addition to taking the ice cream home, he may have ingested a large amount of the bacteria. Also, the Charles Eppes with whom I am familiar burns the candle at both ends; he rarely gets enough sleep or is careful about his diet. Yes?" Don nodded glumly, dragging his feet slowly down the corridor. Havercamp questioned him gently. "Does your father still live with Dr. Eppes?"

Don's brow wrinkled as he looked at her. "Yes…what does that have to do with anything?"

She had successfully maneuvered him almost twenty feet, but he stopped when they came to a turn in the hall. She spoke plainly, almost as if explaining to a child. "We've established that your father most likely has some sort of viral infection; 'the flu'. If they are occupying the same space, Charlie may have a touch of that in addition to _Brucellosis_."

Don sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. "So what now? Is there some kind of wonder drug, or is this thing treated just by turning Charlie into a pretzel?"

Lee smiled. "The original wonder drug – rest. The pain and inflammation will most likely be dealt with by using an NSAID."

Don looked at the doctor. "Huh?"

Havercamp barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes. "Ibuprofen, Naproxen; maybe even aspirin. You'll need to speak directly to Charlie's physician to find out which course of action he takes."

Don's expression was waiting for the other shoe to drop. "That's all?"

"Acute episodes of pericarditis typically last from one to three weeks. There can be complications, of course; especially with the bacteria still rampant in his system." He opened his mouth and Havercamp anticipated his question. "Cardiac tamponade, in which too much fluid collects in the pericardium, creating pressure on the heart, not allowing it to fill properly. Should that happen, Charlie would have to undergo pericardiocentesis to drain the fluid. You really need to discuss all of this with his doctor."

Don stood helpless in the hospital corridor. He needed to find Charlie's doctor; he needed to talk to Amita; he needed to locate Planet Green and/or the location of the second bacteria release; he needed to check on his father; he needed to take a piss; and he needed to do it all at once. A beeper secluded in Dr. Havercamp's pocket suddenly chimed and he started, looking back quickly toward Charlie's room.

She brought the beeper out of her pocket and turned it off. "It's not your brother," she assured him. "I believe Agents Sinclair and Granger are out in the parking lot, delivering a federal vehicle." Don seemed unconvinced, still looking towards Charlie's room, so she went on. "I asked the receptionist downstairs to page me when they arrived. I have several other area hospitals to visit."

Don finally nodded, and made a decision. "I'd walk you down," he apologized, "but I gotta take a leak."

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Ian pushed into the interrogation room and dropped another armload of mug books onto the table. Bernie slammed shut the cover of the book he had been perusing and groaned. "Not more! How many of them things you guys gonna bring in here, anyway?"

Edgarton picked up two empty soda cans and several paper candy bar wrappers. "As many as you want," he answered dryly.

Bernie wiped the sweat from his florid face with his pudgy hand. "Why you mixin' em all up this way? I coulda found her a long time ago iffen you'd just shown me them colored people!"

Ian paused near the corner trash receptacle, where he had just dropped the remnants of a pastrami and swiss – Bernie had left the wrapping, and that was about it. "Colored?" he repeated, his eyebrows drawing together in the center of his forehead.

Bernie nodded his head vigorously, dragging another mug book toward himself, over the top of a vending-machine cookie and dangerously close to a half-full can of soda. As the can tipped, he seemed to remember it suddenly and fisted it in a mighty paw. He drained the soda in one swallow and banged the can back to the table. "You know," he started, then stopped for a belch. He grunted and then sighed a little, leaning back so far in the chair Ian was sure it would collapse from his weight. "Them Chartreuse Globe folks. I need another soda."

Edgarton crossed to the end of the table, and perched on the edge. "You mean 'Planet Green'? And I think you already emptied the machine on this floor. All of them."

Bernie grinned. "Green. Chartreuse. Whatever. Can you run to another floor, then? I'm a sick man, you know," he whined. "I tested positive for that bacteria."

Ian lowered his head to his chest and breathed deeply a few times before he stood and looked at Bernie again. "I'm sure the lipids and triglycerides will kill you first," he muttered. A slow smile spread over his face. "Or me. I _am_ a sniper."

Bernie quickly opened the cover of the book. "I'm just saying this could be easier," he defended. He lowered his voice, talking mainly to himself. "Have to go and mix 'em in with all the other riff-raff. Like I don't have nuthin' else to do. Like my business is ever gonna come back, after this. Like…"

He stopped talking abruptly, and Ian watched him stop and focus on one photo. He came to stand behind Bernie and look over his shoulder. "Got something?"

Bernie shrugged. "I think this 'un lived in my apartment building last year."

Ian made a noise of disgust and stormed for the door. "I'll get your damn soda. Same thing?"

Bernie smiled at the table. "Maybe diet, this time. I'm tryin' to lose weight. And some more chips."

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Don was relieved when the call didn't go directly to voice mail. "Larry," he almost sighed, sagging a little into the plush leather of the SUV. "Don. Where are you guys?"

"Amita and I just left the Palomar Observatory twenty minutes ago," answered the physicist. "Why do you ask, if I may be so bold?"

Don narrowed his eyes. "Are you driving?"

Larry answered proudly. "As a matter of fact, Agent, I am."

"Pull over," Don ordered, "or give the cell to Amita." Personally, he hoped Larry picked the first option. Don had called him, rather than Amita, because he wasn't sure he could talk to her after Charlie's revelation.

He heard a slight huff. "There's a roadside diner just ahead…I'm pulling off. Amita is sleeping. The poor dear has not been feeling at all well, I'm afraid."

Don's blood froze in his veins. "What? What's wrong with her?"

Larry caught the slightly frantic tone and his own voice projected confusion when he answered. "She's sure it's just the flu, Don. She said Charles…." Although he did not have his friend's genius for numbers, Larry put two + two together rather quickly. "Is Charles ill as well? Amita said neither of them has felt up to par this week."

Don just pelted him with more questions. "Body aches? Fever? Headache? Weakness?"

Larry glanced at the woman sleeping beside him, her head leaning against the passenger window. "I see perspiration on her upper lip," he observed. "Should I wake her? Is something wrong with Charles?"

Don spoke as clearly and succinctly as he could, remembering his audience. "Larry, listen to me. Don't talk. Just listen. A bacteria has been released in L.A., and Charlie is in the hospital. The CDC is here and on it already. Amita needs to have her blood tested. Right away."

"Oh, dear," Larry breathed. "Oh, my word. We…we can be in L.A. within two hours. Should we come directly to the hospital?"

Don thought. Amita had been showing symptoms as long as Charlie had, according to Larry. "Don't wait that long," he decided. "Find a hospital in Oceanside. I'm sure they've got a copy of the _L.A. Times_ there; it's on the front page. If they give you any trouble, have them call Lee Havercamp of the CDC. I'll give you her private cell number."

Stop in Oceanside? "It's that serious?" Larry asked. "How was this bacteria released? Was it accidental?"

Don hurried him on. "No. Larry, read the paper, Turn on the damn radio – it's all over the news. Tell the ER docs to test for _Brucella_."

"My goodness," Larry responded. "I don't mean to draw attention away from my ill friends, Don – but I _have_ been working closely with Amita for days. Perhaps I should be tested as well?"

Don couldn't stop a snicker. "I doubt if you've been close enough."

"I beg your pardon?"

Don lowered his head to rest on the steering wheel. "Sure, Larry. Have them test your blood, too. _Brucella_. You got that?" Larry assured Don that he did, and Don relayed Havercamp's number, insisting that Larry write it down and repeat it back twice. "It's an ugly little bacteria – but a simple blood test," he said. "It should only take a few hours – the hospital in Oceanside shouldn't have the long lines all the hospitals here are dealing with."

True fear entered Larry's voice for the first time. "Lines?" he repeated. "How extensive is this?"

Don wanted to spare him – but he also wanted to make sure Larry understood how important his mission was. "There have been fatalities," he said quietly. "Call me, as soon as you have results."

Larry swiveled his head to look again at Amita. "Of course," he promised. "You can count on me."

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Ian took a break for a few minutes, letting Bernie sweat it out while he waited for his diet soda. Edgarton drank a cold bottle of water in the lunch room. Then he checked in with Sinclair and found out that he and Granger were on their way back to the field office. Ian used the restroom. Finally, he strolled to the machine back in the lunch area and bought Bernie another soda. When he felt ready to face the slob again, he returned to the interrogation room.

Bernie was standing, facing the door and waiting for him. He smiled widely when Edgarton stepped inside. "I found her!" he crowed, pointing at the open mug book on the table. "This is the bitch who poisoned us all, and ruined my business! Her hair's longer now, and styled different – but I'm sure. Same cold eyes. That's Sarah."

Ian crossed quickly to the table after shoving the soda at Bernie. He looked down, and recognized the woman from the morgue. He knew Bernie was right – this was one of the close cadre of Planet Green leadership. According to his own research, the name she was using two years ago was Linda – but he wouldn't expect her to use the same name for very long. "Sarah."

There was a hiss as Bernie opened the can of soda, and then a sloppy slurp. "Yeah," Bernie reiterated, gesturing with his can. "If you can get me back in my own restaurant, I probably still have her application and references in my office somewheres."

Edgarton turned flashing dark eyes to Bernie and smiled grimly. "Drink up," he advised. "We're about to take a field trip."

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_**A/N #3: Okey-dokey. Perhaps that sparked your interest a little. I do not know if I will be able to post for a few days. I may finish another chapter before I leave (depending upon your input, of course), but in a few days I am heading for the coast to spend my 50**__**th**__** birthday contemplating life…and pericarditis.**_


	12. Children Are Our Future

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem re all Numb3rs characters and characterizations. The "main hospital" featured in this fanFICTION is a work of FICTION and does not really exist in any location other than my mind. Ditto the "downtown Y".**

_**A/N: This is an INTERACTIVE reader-influenced story. As such, The Cat cannot be blamed for anything. Ever.**_

**And Now, Back To Our Tale…**

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**Chapter Twelve: **_**Children Are Our Future**_

Dawn wiped her sweaty palms on the thighs of her jeans and stood several feet behind Cracker, nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "It's pretty old," she said, venturing an opinion. "Isn't this from that construction site Joe hit about six months before the Presidio?"

Cracker was still holding a dusty plastic tarp. He barely glanced at her as he threw it into the corner of the storage unit. "Yeah," he confirmed. "So?"

He stepped closer to the stack of boxes, pulling a screwdriver from his waistband and beginning to pry the lid off the one on top. Dawn backed further away impulsively. "How long does that stuff stay…stable?" she asked.

Cracker laughed harshly, still working on the wooden box. "_Stay_ stable? This shit never even _met_ the concept, Baby. It was dangerous two years ago, and it's dangerous now." A soft sound of dismay escaped Dawn and he glanced back at her over his shoulder. He spared her an exaggerated wink and grinned before he turned his head back toward the box. "You're such a _girl_ sometimes," he teased fondly. "I'm just yankin' ya." With a grunt he finally wrenched the lid from the box and tossed it in the corner, onto the tarp. His dark eyes glinted as he peered inside. "I feel like we took down a Play-Doh® factory."

Dawn crept up behind him, skittish. "What?"

He shifted a little so she could move up and stand beside him and get a better view. "Look," he gestured with his chin. "It's still…" – he reached out a finger and poked the top layer, and Dawn gasped, almost tripping over her own feet as she backed away again – "…malleable, after all this time." He shook his head once and then contemplated the other boxes that had been stored beneath the tarp. "Help me find the blasting caps," he ordered. "Joe got them first, from another construction site, so they're probably on the bottom."

"Cracker…"

He turned at the uncharacteristic fear in her voice. He held out a hand, his smile more tender this time. "It's okay, Baby. This is why the Committee voted for C-4. It's much more stable than TNT, less sensitive to shock, and heat. It's safe to handle. Relatively."

She rolled her eyes. "Relatively."

He grinned again. "Plus, its consistency makes it easy to mold, so we can put it right where we want it. Insert a blasting cap – with a remote detonator, of course – apply some energy to kick off a chemical reaction, and BAM!" He slapped his hands together, and Dawn jumped, startled.

He laughed at her and she reddened furiously, tossing her blond hair over her shoulder. She took one step forward. "We need to meet up with the rest of leadership. The target should be identified with a consensus vote."

Cracker shook his head. "We _are_ leadership, Baby. You, me, Patty. Aaron. Marcus." He approached her slowly, his eyes mesmerizing and bottomless. "Planet Green has been getting away from us, from its roots. We're in danger of becoming mainstream – look at Andi, and others who have left. We have society's attention now, with the _Brucella_. The five of us can re-establish ourselves as the cadre of power with this."

She was simultaneously tempted – and leery. Sure, she and Cracker had been the beginning of Planet Green – along with Joe, and a few others – but they had always welcomed and solicited new recruits. She had supported Cracker when he had surprised her earlier by ostracizing Sarah, but the experience had left her wary. "What do you want to do?" she asked quietly.

He smiled. "They've refused to listen to reason for years. They insist on killing this planet, and everyone on it, slowly and painfully. I say we show them exactly what they're doing – but with more mercy. We'll kill the children quickly."

The tiny hairs on Dawn's arms stood at attention. "Children?" she repeated.

He nodded. "The downtown Y," he said. "The day-care center is at the North end, segregated from the main facilities. You and I go in as parents checking the place out for our kid. I'll wear a suit – you carry a purse. While we're there, you have to use the bathroom. Mold the C-4 around the back of the toilet."

Dawn raised her hand, protesting. "Wait! Wait…why me?"

Cracker frowned, growing impatient. "Because it won't look right if _I_ carry the purse, bitch."

In spite of herself, she laughed. "So we…detonate…from a safe distance away?"

This time Cracker rolled his eyes. "Well, of course, you idiot! What would be the point of blowing up our own damn selves?"

A thrill of anticipation traveled through Dawn with the intensity of an orgasm, and she threw herself on Cracker. "Oh, Baby," she crooned, rubbing against him provocatively. "You're a freakin' genius."

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To say that Amita was taken aback by Larry's pronouncement and the article in _The Times_ would be an understatement. One minute she was sleeping in the car and the next, she was sitting in a small hospital lab waiting room. She was an intelligent woman, but she could hardly think. Everything was so unexpected, and had happened so fast. She wanted to talk to Charlie, who was lying ill in a hospital two hours away, according to Larry – but they were in a restricted cell area of the hospital. She had awoken in a thick fog, the nap having done nothing to rejuvenate her, and now her head was pounding. "This is insane," she muttered, shifting in the hard plastic chair.

Larry patted her gently on the arm and murmured comfortingly. "It's quite unanticipated," he agreed. A young mother carrying an infant sat down next to him and Larry scooted closer to Amita. "I must say, I did not expect quite this long a wait. I shudder to think what the L.A. hospitals must look like."

Amita sighed and lifted one hand to rub her forehead. "Did Don say anything about Alan? My head is going to explode."

Larry glanced at her unhappily. "No, I'm sorry. I was so shocked, I did not think to ask after Alan." He made a move as if to rise from his chair. "Would you like me to see if I can procure some Tylenol®, or aspirin?"

Amita shook her head, rising unsteadily to her own feet. "I have some in my purse," she answered, gripping the handle as if for dear life. "I think I'll just visit the ladies' room. I'll take some there."

Larry half-rose anyway, as a gentleman should, and a wry smile played at Amita's mouth. She tried to lighten the atmosphere. "Save my place," she teased, and Larry finally smiled in return. When he settled back in his chair and laid a hand protectively over the vacant seat now next to him, she departed in a slightly staggering sway for the public women's room she remembered spying just down the hall.

She pushed into her destination and veered to the sinks, placing her purse on the eggshell-white Formica® countertop. She angled the faucet toward "cool" and held her hands under the cold water, sighing in appreciation. Leaning over a little, Amita splashed some of the water over her face; then she cupped her hands and captured some of the liquid, bringing it to her mouth to slurp greedily. She let the water continue running as she straightened painfully, sore muscles protesting. She held a hand in front of the automatic towel dispenser, and then ripped off the sheet offered. It was small, but large enough to blot her face daintily. She then obtained another to more thoroughly dry her hands, before she started digging around in her purse.

She decided to extricate the small bottle of Tylenol® and a dollar bill, if she had one; there was a machine further down the hall, near the elevator. She had seen a photograph of a can of apple juice when they had arrived, and had been craving it ever since. She pulled the pills out of her purse, followed by a half-circle protractor. She placed them on the counter, as she did the dry erase marker that followed. The stick of chalk she liked to keep for Charlie to worry between his fingers when he was particularly preoccupied, was just shoved to the side. Another flat packet of pills she removed, seeing a tell-tale glint of green beneath them.

And then, her fingers let go of the dollar bill and the purse clattered unnoticed to the floor. In surrealistic slow motion, tilting her head as if she were the RCA-Victor® dog listening to a phonographic record, she picked up the flat packet again. She studied the plain, purple plastic. She turned it over, and regarded the holes pushed through the back. Then she looked at herself in the mirror.

All the pills were missing that should be.

They were 92 to 99 percent effective.

Eight out of every 100 women who used them correctly would get pregnant anyway.

Her eyes widened almost comically and reflected back at her from the mirror. She swallowed once; then swallowed again, her mouth suddenly very, very dry.

She didn't even hear herself say it.

"Oh, shit."

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_**A/N: It's short, but it's the best an old woman can do…**_


	13. I Will Follow You

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem re all Numb3rs characters and characterizations. The "main hospital" featured in this fanFICTION is a work of FICTION and does not really exist in any location other than my mind. Ditto the "downtown Y".**

_**A/N: This is an INTERACTIVE reader-influenced story.**_

**And Now, Back To Our Tale…**

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**Chapter Thirteen: **_**I Will Follow You…**_

Don was back at the bureau, catching up with his team. He had stopped by the Craftsman to check on his father and update him on Charlie's new complication. Now he looked sternly at Agent Granger and tried to wear his F.B.I. face for what was essentially personal business. "It's already almost 4," he pointed out. "Millie is going to cover an evening class tonight for Charlie, and I think it would be a good idea all the way around if you went to the house and stayed with Dad."

As expected, Colby protested, his eyes narrowing. "Eppes. I'm not an invalid. You heard Havercamp -- there's a two-week incubation period with _Brucellosis_. She's got me on the meds, and I probably won't develop any symptoms at all!"

Don argued; also expected. "You're exhausted, Colby. Exposure to the bacteria aside, you haven't slept in almost two days. If you want to keep working this case, I need you at the top of your game." Granger opened his mouth as if to further object and Don pulled out the big gun, metaphorically speaking. "Besides," he concluded, gentling his voice some, "I'd consider it a personal favor if you stayed with Dad. He's not really that sick anymore -- he could probably stay alone -- but he can't go and see Charlie, and it's killing him. I'm bouncing back-and-forth between the job and Chuck as it is -- I think Dad needs one of his sons at home, to fuss over a little, and distract him."

Colby reddened, his gaze sliding over the silent David and landing on the floor somewhere between his feet. "You don't have to make fun of me," he muttered. "I'll go."

Don suppressed a smile, sitting on the edge of a table in a conference room. Colby sat close enough that Don could have reached out and touched him -- but he thought that might be overkill. "I'm not, Col," he assured the younger agent. He looked up and included David, seated at the end of the table, in his gaze, then looked back at Granger. "My Dad _loves_ you guys. Megan, Amita and Robin are like the daughters he never had. You're _all_ family to him -- and that means a lot to me, and Charlie." He cleared his throat. "It's not easy for me to ask for help -- from anybody, ever -- but this would really help me out, Colby."

David finally spoke, in a dead-pan that broke the tension in the room. "Hell, Eppes, now I want to go too."

Don laughed. "Where's Ian?" he asked, changing the subject.

"He and Bernie are at the diner," David answered. "Bernie finally i.d.'d the suspected Planet Green member who -- allegedly -- released the _Brucella_. They're trying to find her original app; see if they can track her, somehow."

Colby rolled his eyes. "Suspected. Allegedly. Come on, Dave, it's just us. No attorneys here. No witnesses."

Sinclair considered, and then smiled slowly. "All-right," he intoned smoothly. "How's this?" He looked up at Don. "Ian's on bitch patrol."

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Amita wandered around the perimeter of the physician parking lot behind the ER-entrance, her cell pressed to her ear. She felt a little guilty, the way she had bolted as soon as the technician had drawn her blood. She hadn't even waited for Larry, whose turn was next.

The guilt melted into something else, though, the second she heard Charlie's somewhat-breathless voice. "Hello?"

She closed her eyes briefly and smiled. "I wish I was with you," she whispered.

She could hear the answering smile in her lover's voice. " 'Mita." He took a ragged breath. "How…are you? Where…"

She interrupted, opening her eyes and frowning. "Charlie, are you all right? You sound…funny."

He chuckled briefly into the phone, apologizing when it broke off into a cough. "I've been better," he teased. "You…did find me in the…hospital."

Amita refused to be led astray. "Your breathing is off. Tell me what's going on."

"I'll…be fine," he insisted. "I'm on a…little oxygen now. Sorry…I didn't know; never would…would have expos…"

She shook her head and interrupted again. "Of course you never would have exposed me Charlie, I know that. Besides, we don't know yet that you did. There's a line at the lab, even here – Larry's still inside."

There was a moment punctuated only by labored breathing, and then a confused, "Larry?"

Amita executed an almost military about-face at the edge of the lot and headed in the opposite direction. "Mmm," she murmured, not really paying attention. "How's Alan? He was a little under the weather too, if I recall."

There was an odd choking noise. "Don't make…me…laugh," Charlie begged.

Amita stopped walking. "Why is that funny?"

His breathy, raspy voice – sexy at the worst of times – took on a husky quality that made Amita blush right there in the parking lot. "You…only knew that because…he…came home early and…caught us on the…couch."

Her blush became earnest embarrassment. "It's not like that was the first time," she countered, chagrined.

Charlie huffed another brief laugh, followed by another cough. "He's…ok. No _Brucella_…just flu, I guess."

Amita breathed a sigh of relief. "That's good. That's excellent." She allowed a modicum of hope to color her voice. "Maybe I just caught the flu from Alan."

"Hope so," Charlie answered sadly.

Amita suddenly giggled. "That just sounds so wrong," she noted, starting to walk again. "There was a baby in the waiting room." She shut her mouth abruptly, appalled.

Charlie was back to confusion. "Alone?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, Charlie, her mother was holding her."

He sighed a little. "Oh. Sorry. Annoying?"

She bristled, a little. "No. Why would you say that?"

After a few more seconds of silence, Charlie demonstrated his remarkable IQ by a leap of logic that nearly caused Amita to drop the phone. "You're…still taking…the pill, right?"

She tried to laugh it off, then lowered her own voice to the sultry level she knew would have him tenting the hospital sheets soon. "Of course I am," she answered truthfully. "You keep me _'occupied'_ enough that I know not to let _that_ prescription run out."

Charlie made a noise that was probably a groan. "Stop that," he begged. She giggled again, and he went on. "Before…you stop taking them…I'm going to want…certain guarantees."

She stopped walking again and felt suddenly cold, even though the sun's heat was nearly melting the asphalt of the parking lot. "Like what?" she almost whispered.

"We need…to see someone…make sure it doesn't get…my nose."

A shrill, almost-hysterical laugh escaped her. "I think it skips the first-born," she finally managed to say. "Don's nose is perfectly acceptable."

"Thanks…so much," Charlie grumbled.

Amita smiled. "What else?" she asked a little wildly. "Should we design the baby right now? How much time do we have? Enough to get ahold of a bioengineer?"

Charlie yawned, and coughed some more. "I'll talk..about it whenever you're…ready. Just…like you. Want her..to look like…you. Perfect."

Amita felt tears stinging the backs of her eyes. "I'll be there soon," she promised, her voice thick. "Get some rest, now. And…and Charlie?"

"Hmmm?" he murmured, close to under already.

"I love you, too," she declared loudly. "Even your nose."

Charlie made a noise halfway between a chuckle and another yawn. "Gotta…admit," he nearly whispered. "It would…look strange…on a baby."

When they finally disconnected, Amita didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. So she walked to the nearest bench, sat down – and did both.

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Her heart nearly stopped when the F.B.I.'s hired killer exited the front of the building with Bernie in tow. She had not seen her former boss go inside. Bernie was not someone who could be missed easily, so it must have happened during her trip to the bowling alley.

Sarah was just stepping off the bus when she saw them. Her plan had been to case the Wilshire Blvd. building that afternoon; get inside, hopefully in time to take the last public tour. Examine security – which was probably pretty damned impressive. It _was_ the F.B.I., after all. Her plans were shot all to hell – just like Joe had been – the second Bernie waddled into sight.

She cursed under her breath and immediately dropped her backpack, bending over to pick it up and hide her face at the same time. She was wearing the glasses, the wig, the polyester pant suit…it was doubtful either man would recognize her. Self-preservation was so ingrained in her that it was almost a reflex action anyway. Surrepticiously, she knelt over the backpack as other passengers streamed around her – not one offering to help, of course – and watched Edgarton and Bernie over the low-strength lenses. They were heading for a dark sedan parked in one of the few available spaces on the street.

She hesitated for a moment, unsure what she should do. She could go ahead with her investigation of the building. Could she learn enough, about how to best dispose of the agent, when he wasn't even there? How would she know for sure where he worked if she didn't see him at a desk somewhere? There were a couple of taxis idiling at the curb, she had noted, their drivers leaning casually against the front fenders, waiting for end-of-working-day fares who would stream out of the offices soon. She hear the solid _thunk_ of car doors as Bernie and the agent prepared to leave, and she made up her mind.

Pretending to search through her backpack, Sarah walked within two feet of Bernie, sitting in the passenger seat of the agent's vehicle. He wasn't even looking in her direction as the car slowly pulled into traffic. She quickened her step, shouting "Hey!" and waving a 50-dollar-bill at the first cab's driver.

He stepped toward her with a smile, reaching for the money. "Where to, lady?"

She let the pack gape open, so that he could see the rest of the money inside. "Do you have a problem following that fed's car?" she asked, remembering to smile at the end. "My boyfriend – I want to surprise him."

The taxi driver escorted her quickly to the rear of his vehicle, opening the door and ushering Sarah inside. "Not a problem for me," he said, tossing a cigarette into the street and latching onto the fifty. "Not a problem at all."

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Aaron passed the pipe to Patty, hoping she was already so stoned that she didn't notice his hands were shaking.

He couldn't believe what Cracker had just proposed – what no-one else in the room seemed to have a problem accepting. The leader could do no wrong as far as Dawn and Patty were concerned, so their whole-hearted support was not surprising. What did concern Aaron a little was the apparent ease with which Marcus jumped onboard. Now Cracker was looking at _him_, his eyes slightly narrowed, as if daring Aaron to object.

He shrugged apologetically and let his gaze wander the room, looking again for anyone with even a modicum of rationality. "I don't know," Aaron finally murmured quietly. He looked back at Cracker. "I mean, on the one hand, it's brilliant." He inhaled deeply, swallowing down a lung-full of Mary Jane. "On the other," he squeaked, "it's _kids_, man."

Cracker smiled indulgently – no doubt a show for the others – and stared daggers at Aaron. "No more pipe for Aaron. Dude, that's kind-of the point."

Patty giggled and Aaron smiled sheepishly. He began to play nervously with his own fingers. "It's just that…look at prisons, man. Kiddy-killers take all kinds of shit in those places. It seems like a sure-fire way to instill hatred for Planet Green and our cause – not adherence!"

Cracker's eyes narrowed even further. "It is time for a sacrifice," he insisted. "The babes are innocent, and that is why we must sacrifice them. Society's eyes have become too jaded, and they can only see the truly reprehensible now."

Dawn added her opinion. "Their souls will be rewarded," she said. "I believe the children will be reincarnated on a higher level, and they will understand why it had to be done. They will be pleased they helped prolong life on this planet by giving up their own."

Patty swayed next to him, bumping into Aaron's arm. "That's so beautiful," she said, her voice holding a tinge of awe. She reached out and grasped Aaron's hand – whether in solidarity or to hold herself upright, he wasn't quite sure – and held on tightly. "We have to do it, Aaron," she cooed, leaning closer to kiss his cheek. "It's the only way, now."

Aaron turned his head toward her slightly. She was still facing him, her lips parted slightly, her eyes mere slits. "You're right," he groaned, taking her in his arms. "You're all right."

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Larry was waiting for her in the lab's waiting area, which was still full. He absently rubbed at the tape wrapped around his elbow. "They're bringing in techs to work all night," he said, "but they don't expect to have any results for us before morning. We should probably find someplace to stay for the night." He smiled at her kindly. "Are you feeling any better, dear?"

Amita thought. Ever since the spectre of a possible pregnancy had reared its ugly head in the bathroom, she had been thinking so hard about that, her symtoms had taken a back seat. "I think so," she said.

Larry's smile grew broader as he stood. "That's excellent news. Were you able to speak with Charles?" The two were starting to head out the door into the main corridor of the hospital when Amita recognized the technician who had drawn her blood earlier.

The young woman was headed in their direction, looking right at her, and Amita suddenly felt like sitting down. "I think I need some water," she said, halting her steps, and Larry looked at her anxiously.

She was pale, and trembling, and he turned quickly to the folding chairs that had been brought in for overflow seating, and lined up against the wall. "Come and sit down. I'll see what I can find."

Amita allowed him to escort her to a chair, but patted his arm solidly and tried to smile brightly. "I'm all-right, Larry. Would it be too much trouble to get a cold bottle from the machine down the hall?" She started to open her purse. "I think I have some money…"

"Nonsense," Larry objected. "And it's no trouble at all, Amita. Are you sure you'll be all right here for a moment?"

Amita looked up at him, her head bobbing. _Just smile and nod_, she told herself, _just smile and nod_. "Thank-you," she called after him at he hurried from the room.

She had time for half a breath before the technician sat beside her. "We won't have the _Brucella_ results until tomorrow morning," she said quietly, "but I ran the pregnancy test right away. I thought you'd like to know as soon as possible."

Amita gripped one hand with the other, resting both on her purse. "Yes," she agreed. "I would."

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_**A/N: Ha! The most evil of all cliff-hangers! Votes are pretty dead-even: is she, or isn't she?**_


	14. Absolutely Celllicious

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem re all Numb3rs characters and characterizations. The "main hospital" featured in this fanFICTION is a work of FICTION and does not really exist in any location other than my mind. Ditto the "downtown Y".**

_**A/N: This is an INTERACTIVE reader-influenced story.**_

_**A/N #2: Thank you so much for playing along. Many of your suggestions intrigue me, and may germinate other tales. In the end, you may believe either of two things: (1) The Cat will do what she wants anyway; or (2) The Cat endeavors to keep our little story from growing completely out of control, and thereby becoming an AU caricature. (We have all worked too hard to now become the laughingstock of fanfic!)**_

**Read on, MacBeth…**

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**Chapter Fourteen: **_**Absolutely Cell-licious**_

It sucked, the fact that she had virtually no female friends.

Sure, she was "friendly" with many women. Other faculty, Millie, students. She and Charlie had double-dated with Don and Liz a few times, but the female agent had always held herself slightly aloof. She was a small woman – almost delicate in the right light – and Amita had decided that Liz been forced to develop a tough outer shell and a certain reserve, in order to do the job she did. Megan was not really that way – and Amita probably felt closer to her than any other woman. But, perhaps her very honesty and vulnerability was why she was no longer in the Bureau. Amita sighed, missing Megan probably at least as much as Larry did, at that moment.

After Amita had sipped some of the water he brought her in the hospital, the two professors had found a nearby Day's Inn with vacancies. Fleinhardt, bless his heart, assumed she was still under-the-weather. Amita had allowed him to carry her bag into her room and fetch a bucket of ice – but she had drawn the line at drawing her bath. The physicist had finally decided to walk a few blocks to a restaurant, where he would dine; promising to bring her some take-out soup, perhaps a grilled cheese.

She had wanted him to go, but now that he had been gone for almost 10 minutes and she had discovered the draught of female companionship in her life, she wished he would come back. She had stood in the bathroom for awhile, studying her own face in the mirror. Then she had circled the room, stopping to perch on the edge of the double bed for all of 45 seconds. In the end, she crossed the few feet to the small, round table in the corner. She sat down in the room's single chair, contemplated the telephone sitting on top of the table, and wondered idly why they even bothered to put those in motel rooms, these days. Then she pulled her purse toward her, and took out her cell.

She scrolled through the contact list until she found the number. She didn't call enough to add the contact to speed dial – she actually hadn't even been sure she had ever programmed the number at all. She hesitated a brief moment, then hit the send button. She pressed the phone to her ear with one hand, and twirled a long strand of her dark hair with the other.

"Hello?"

"I thought I was pregnant." She nearly groaned aloud when the words popped out. _Way to work your way up to it, Amita._

She counted five seconds of silence. "Who is this?"

Great. She had found a way to feel even worse. "Amita," she whispered.

Three seconds, this time, then a matter-of-fact, "Oh." Two more seconds. "Did you want to be?"

She should have called Megan. Who the hell cared what time it was in D.C.? "I guess not," she responded. "At least, not until I thought I might be." _Clear as mud, that_.

"There are two issues, here – at least. Have you been tested for _Brucellosis_ yet?"

Amita's eyes widened, and she let go of her hair, dropping her hand to the top of the table. "You know about that?"

"I've talked to Don a few times today. He just called a few minutes ago. I wish I could be there to help him with Charlie and Alan, but my sister is due any day."

_Oh, shit_. She had completely forgotten – Robin was in Spokane, with her very pregnant sister. Oh, shit. "Please don't tell Don."

"I won't. This is your news, to share or not share with whomever you choose. The test?"

Amita began to drum her fingers on the table. "I had my blood drawn, but we're in a motel in Oceanside waiting for results in the morning."

The attorney was nothing if not practical. "We'll hope for the best, of course. But if you are infected, you certainly don't want to also be pregnant. Who knows what could happen to the fetus?"

Without warning and much to her own chagrin, Amita began to cry. "Donchoo think I know that?" she wailed.

Robin's voice took on a different, more gentle tone. "You haven't thought about it before."

Amita sniffed. "I'm on..only in my s-second year of teaching!"

"Don and I are discussing eliminating birth control right now," Robin shared. "That's confidential, of course."

Confidential or not, it served to stop the flow of waterworks. "But…you're both at the height of your careers!"

She could almost see Robin shrug. "Neither Lady Justice nor the F.B.I. will visit us in an assisted living facility when we're old. And even before then, _right now_ -- we want family picnics, family vacations, back-to-school minutia – and we want that before we're too old to enjoy it."

Amita considered that. "Charlie said he's ready to talk about it whenever I am," she said at length.

"Ask yourself this," Robin counseled. "Were you relieved, or disappointed?"

"Both," Amita answered right away.

"Then start talking now. Maybe the two of you will come up with a timeline – it doesn't have to be immediate."

Amita almost smiled. "You make it sound so simple."

Robin laughed. "Believe me, I know that it's not. Don and I are _talking_, but we haven't _decided_ anything, yet." She laughed again. "I think being in the delivery room with my sister may bring discussions to a halt."

This time Amita did smile. "I imagined the baby," she said quietly. "A little boy, with curly hair and big brown eyes full of wonder and love – just like his daddy."

"I'm sorry for the part of you that's disappointed," Robin said warmly. "Right now I honestly don't know what the hell any of us are waiting for."

Amita giggled, and wiped her eye. "Neither does Alan."

A snort of laughter. "That's another thing. We want to have babies soon enough that they can enjoy their grandfather."

Amita nodded. "When Charlie is better…when this is all over…"

Robin suddenly changed the subject. "Amita? Why did you call _me_?"

Amita felt herself blushing. "I'm sorry, maybe I shouldn't have. I know we're not close. I just kept thinking, who else would understand wanting part of an Eppes' for their very own, forever, and ever…"

"I'm glad you called," Robin responded. "Maybe this is a first step for us, and we _will_ be very close soon. I'd like that."

"It's probably a good idea," Amita teased. "After all, our kids will be cousins."

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When the murdering Pig had pulled over to the curb in front of the diner, Sarah had instructed the cab driver to keep going. Obviously, Bernie was just catching a ride back to his business. She needed to think. Find a place to stay for the evening and think.

She had to stop _reacting_, and start _acting_ – as she had been trained. Sarah wanted to punish him, for killing Joe – and it was important that he know _why_ he was being punished. She could probably get into one of the storage caches Planet Green had hidden all over the city, and get one of the weapons she had helped Joe stash herself. Then, she could stalk Edgarton again, shooting him like the dog he was, on the street. But that was not good enough. Or bad enough. He had to know why.

She had the cab take her to the edge of East L.A. After she had paid the driver, she only had a few hundred left. She would walk to one of the seediest, by-the-hour hotels that she could find, lay low for the night, and plan. Maybe there was a way to kill the Pig and pay back Cracker at the same time.

She was startled when the prepaid cell in her backpack rang. Only the coalition had her number – had Cracker reconsidered? She quickly veered to the inside edge of the sidewalk, in the shadow of a tenement building, and dropped to her knees, digging frantically in her pack. Breathlessly, she brought the phone to her ear. "Cracker?"

"Sarah, it's me. Aaron."

Sarah sighed and sagged back toward the brick façade. "Does Cracker want to see me?"

Aaron let a beat pass before he answered. "No, Sarah. But I do."

She narrowed her eyes. "This is a trick. Cracker's setting me up."

Aaron protested. "I swear on Joe's memory, that's not true. Please, we can meet wherever you want – someplace open, around people, whatever." His voice took on a desperate tinge even as it lowered. "Sarah, he's going after kids. He's gonna kill kids."

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Lee Havercamp sat at the small table in the St. Michael's cafeteria and frowned. Her notes were spread out before her, and she was sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. A pair of black jeans entered her peripheral vision about the time she heard Don Eppes speak.

"How's it goin'?" He sounded exhausted.

Havercamp sighed, and indicated the chair on the other side of the table. She waited until Eppes took a seat before she answered. "You look as bad as you sound," she observed. "When's the last time you had any sleep?"

Don shrugged, and idly placed his hand on top of one of the papers. "What's this?"

She shook her head tolerantly. "Stats from UCLA Medical Center," she answered. She used her cup to indicate other piles. "Cedars-Sinai; Huntington; County General."

Don read the displeasure on her face. "And?"

She indicated another stack, the one closest to her. "This is St. Michael's. Since we discovered the _Brucella_ 12 hours ago and started aggressive treatment, patients at other hospitals are leveling-off; some are even improving slightly already."

Don felt a familiar knot in his gut and knew he wasn't going to like this. "Not here?"

She shook her head. "On the contrary, _Brucellosis_ patients seem to be growing worse. In fact, the entire general population has steadily weakened today, regardless of diagnosis. There's been another _Brucellosis_ fatality, as well."

Don frowned. "You're using the same treatment?"

She nodded. "It makes no sense," she murmured.

Don watched her sip her coffee and contemplate her notes, and wondered why one hospital would have such different results from all of the other hospitals in the area. According to Havercamp, treatment was the same. Conditions? "Has St. Michael's failed any inspections recently?"

She raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Very good, agent – but I thought of that." She sat down her cup and fingered the St. Michael's stack of stats. "I have three years' worth of reports here, and there were no problems noted. Last year the inspector even raved about the hospital's attention to cleanliness. Besides, it's not like weakened patients are succumbing to other things, like staph. Whatever diagnosis landed them here is worsening; the patients are not rallying."

"Oh, my God," Don suddenly breathed. "They released it here."

Comprehension quickly followed by revulsion travelled Havercamp's face. "The threat Planet Green made about having released a second dose of the bacteria – you think it could be here?"

Don started to answer but was interrupted by the chirp of his cell. He fished the phone from his pocket and brought it to his ear. "Eppes," he answered impatiently.

Havercamp was scribbling on her notepad – notify HazMat, test all hospital patients, personnel and visitors for _Brucella_ – when she looked up and saw the color drain from Don's face. "I'm here right now," he said into the phone. "Downstairs in the cafeteria." Don's knuckles were white, he was clutching the phone so tightly, and despair rolled off him in waves. "My God," he said. "Can I come up?"

He was standing as he spoke, and Havercamp began to gather all the papers, shoving them haphazardly in her briefcase. "I'm on the way," Don said, disconnecting the call and shoving the cell back into the pocket of his jeans. Havercamp stood as well, and waited. Don ran a shaking hand over his head and regarded her with fear. "Ch…Charlie's…there's some kind of emergency."

She stepped around the table and touched him on the arm. "What?"

"Cardiac tamponade," he repeated from the telephone conversation. "They're doing some…some…"

"Pericariocentesis?" she guessed, and he nodded vigorously. Havercamp began to push against the arm she was gripping, steering Don toward the cafeteria exit. "Come on," she ordered. "We're going to your brother's room."

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	15. The Red Light Hotel

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem re all Numb3rs characters and characterizations. The "main hospital" featured in this fanFICTION is a work of FICTION and does not really exist in any location other than my mind. Ditto the "downtown Y".**

_**A/N: This is an INTERACTIVE reader-influenced story.**_

_**A/N #2: Aw…my mind was made up, it really was. If this were my story, I would not do what I am thinking of doing. Alas, you all crawl around my head and plant the most ridiculous, delicious ideas…**_

**Read on, MacBeth…**

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**Chapter Fifteen: **_**The Red Light Hotel**_

Don would have ripped up all five flights of stairs, but he needed Havercamp – so he impatiently rode up in the elevator with the CDC physician. "I want him out of here," he snarled after he jabbed the button for his brother's floor. "Now, tonight. I don't want them doing any damn 'emergency' procedure; there could be _Brucella_ all over whatever equipment they intend to use!" He stopped pacing the small box long enough look at her pleadingly. "Pull rank – transfer him. Please."

She kept her voice level and modulated. "If what you suspect is true, Agent Eppes, _all_ of these patients need to be transferred somewhere. It's an overwhelming possibility."

He started pacing again. "But Charlie's getting worse…"

She agreed. "So it would seem." He glared in her direction and she held up a calming hand. "It's unlikely he can wait for the procedure, Don. I'm sure they wouldn't be performing a pericardiocentesis at 8 o'clock at night if it was something that could wait. You may have to allow this – but improvement is usually immediate once the fluid is drained from the pericardium. He should be stable enough to transport by morning."

The elevator jolted to a stop and Don pushed ahead of the doctor so he could encourage the doors to open faster. "He's got good insurance through CalSci," he informed Havercamp as the two of them started toward Charlie's room. "You can probably get him into a private hospital or clinic. You're right, we're going to have to move – how many?"

"Hundreds," responded Lee quietly. "St. Michael's is at 90 percent capacity right now. Unfortunately, so are most of the other hospitals in the area. This is a logistical nightmare."

Don shook his head and opened his mouth to answer when hospital personnel began exploding from the door of his brother's room, which was just coming into view. Two orderlies were pushing Charlie on a gurney between them, quickly, while a nurse followed pushing a portable crash cart. Charlie's IV swung lazily over his head; a small canister of oxygen was lying next to Charlie on the gurney. The entire parade was headed in the opposite direction from the public elevators, toward the faster hospital-use-only lift about fifty feet from Charlie's room.

Don took off in a run, not caring how many patients he was frightening with his bellow down the hall. "HEY! Hey, where are you taking him! CHARLIE!"

The group didn't even slow down, or otherwise acknowledge his presence. Instead, he crashed headlong into Charlie's doctor, who was the last to exit the hospital room. The physician _oomphed_ in impacted surprise, the clipboard he was holding flying in one direction while he and Don flew in another. They careened off the corner of the door and crashed to the floor. The pen with which the doctor had been making notations in the chart glanced off Don's forearm hard enough to scratch and draw blood, but the agent didn't even notice.

He pushed off the doctor far enough to lean over him menacingly, as if he had tackled him on purpose. "Where the hell are you taking my brother?" he growled.

The startled physician regarded him with round eyes. "Th-the nurse t-told me she c-called you…" he stammered.

Havercamp finally caught up with Don and stood over the doorway sprawl. She _clucked_ ominously. "Agent Eppes," she started, pulling at the back of Don's t-shirt. "Get on your feet this instant."

Her presence seemed to instill the floored doctor with some bravado, and he pushed against Don as well. As the two men regained their feet, the doctor noticed the bleeding scratch on Don's arm. He had been working up a righteous lather, but now his caretaking side kicked in. He reached toward Don – tentatively. "You're hurt," he said quietly.

Don glanced down at his arm. "It's nothing," he answered brusquely, but the man's concern served to help him bring it down a notch. "Look, that was an accident. I was trying to catch up with my brother. Where are they taking him?"

Again confusion passed over the physician's features. "To the OR, for the pericardiocentesis. I understood that you had been informed."

Don whirled to face Lee Havercamp. "I thought…can't they do it here, in his room?"

"It's not impossible," Havercamp responded, "but ideally the doctor will use an echocardiogram during the procedure to ensure placement of the needle. An OR-suite is more conducive to such equipment."

"Absolutely," agreed Charlie's doctor. "Pericardiocenteseis is hardly ever performed 'blind', anymore."

Don whipped his head back to address him. "Shouldn't you get up there, then?" An unwelcome thought occurred to him and he began to look the physician over more carefully. "I didn't hurt you? You'll be all right to do the procedure?"

The doctor smiled and shook his head. "I'm sure I'll be a little sore in the morning, but I'll live. I'm not doing the procedure, however. As soon as Charlie began exhibiting signs of pericarditis, I brought in Dr. Linton, a cardiologist, to consult on the case. He has much more experience with this sort of thing, and he'll be performing the procedure." Don lifted his arm to run his hand over his head, and the doctor noticed the scratch again. He looked at Dr. Havercamp. "Stop at the nurses' station and slap a little antibiotic cream and a bandage on that – they're in OR-7." He included Don in a stern gaze. "It has an observation theater. By the time you get to the 8th floor, things should be well underway." He was going to add the fact that Havercamp's I.D. would get her into any area of the hospital, but Don was already halfway to the nurses' station.

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Sarah had met Aaron on the busy street just outside of the Red Light Hotel. He was nervous, and a guilty cloud seemed to hang over his head. At first she was afraid it was because he was helping to set her up. She and Aaron had been close in the coalition. When Joe had first recruited him from UC-Davis and brought him into the communal living arrangement, the three of them shared their space – and each other – more often than not. Oh, Sarah didn't love him the same way she loved Joe. Everyone around her knew that Joe was all that mattered. But Aaron was nice; a gentle boy, who had tried to comfort her when Joe was murdered, and he truly believed in their cause. It had hurt, that morning, when Cracker had cut her loose – and Aaron did not defend her.

After talking quietly together on the street outside the hotel, Sarah began to feel that the guilt she perceived was because Aaron had let Cracker remove her from Planet Green without a battle. She told herself that if Cracker had meant to kill her, he would have done it that morning, and eventually she led Aaron up the stairs to the tiny room she had rented.

The room contained only an old, iron-framed, squeaky double bed. There was no table, chair, telephone. All the rooms on the floor shared one filthy bathroom out in the hall. They perched cautiously on the edge of the bed – unsure it would hold their weight – and Aaron looked around with growing distate and despair. "God, Sarah," he finally said. "This is awful."

She bristled. "And where else do I have to go? I just gave my paycheck to the coalition yesterday – I had to hit Andi for some money."

He dug around the pocket of his jeans and brought out a fistful of 20s, which he offered her. "I took this from the kitty," he said.

Sarah regarded the money with temptation, but did not accept it. "You'll be punished. Cracker knows how much should be in there."

Aaron sighed, peeled one twenty off and shoved the rest back into his pocket. "At least take this much. He has a general idea, but I can convince him we used a little in the relocation. Or something."

Sarah smiled and accepted the bill. "Thank-you." She played with the money, running it through her fingers. "Is this why you wanted to see me? What did you mean, _'he's targeting kids'_?"

Aaron's face became the picture of desolation. "He and Dawn went to the cache. The one where Joe hid the blasting caps, and the C-4. They brought some back to the loft; he says our next action has to bump it up a notch. Sarah, they want to blow up the daycare center at the downtown-Y!"

A chill ran through her, but she feigned indifference. "Why do you think I would disagree with that? I fed contaminated milk to children for two weeks."

Aaron looked away, at the peeling wallpaper, and swallowed thickly. "It's not the same," he finally responded lamely, looking back at her. "You fed the same milk to every customer who ordered it; we didn't specifically target children. Plus, _brucellosis_ is rarely fatal in a developed country. When Planet Green instigated the _brucella_ action, we knew it would stand society on its ear for a few weeks while they figured out what was going on. Once they understood our power, they would take us, and our cause, more seriously. The only fatalities have been as we predicted – those who for one reason or another were too weak to fight the infection off."

Sarah stiffened. "There have been fatalities already?"

Aaron brushed off her concern. "An acceptable loss," he insisted. "Not unexpected." He leaned forward a little. "Sarah, _no-one_ will survive the amount of C-4 they're planning to set off inside that daycare center. I checked – the enrollment is almost 150 children between 1 and 5. Nearly 40 staff. The blast will be so big, I think there could be fatalities in the main building, as well. Cracker says that we must target children to get the attention of the parents." He snickered, leaning back a little. "This will get their attention, all right. They will hate Planet Green and everything we represent. This will not bring adherence to our cause – it will annilihate us all."

Sarah forced herself to think like the general she had been, just that morning. Aaron was right. This was _not_ the way to insure compliance. Cracker had turned; the taste of blood had ignited the darkness in his soul and pushed him over the edge. Dawn, Patty and the others were following the charismatic leader like the lemmings they were. "You need to go back, and appear to support the action," she decided.

Aaron nodded. "I thought you would say that. I have to leak you the details – when, and how." His brow furrowed. "But then what are _you_ going to do about it? You can hardly stop this by yourself, from the Red Light Hotel!"

A plan began to take shape in Sarah's heart, and she smiled. "Aaron, what can you get me from one of the other caches?"

He remained confused. "Why? What do you want?"

This time she leaned forward, and whispered conspiratorily. "He's here. The one who murdered Joe, and the others. I can use him, to derail Cracker. When he thinks it's all over, and L.A. is safe again – I want to take him out."

Aaron missed Joe almost as much as Sarah did. His eyes gleamed. "A gun?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Too much security." They both thought for a moment, and then she patted his crossed knees happily, leaning in to kiss him thoroughly on the mouth. Leaving him slightly breathless, she pulled back just enough to whisper, "The grenades. Can you get to the grenades?"

"Oh, God, yes," Aaron moaned, pulling her toward him.

And the bed began to squeak in earnest, at the Red Light Hotel.

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Don stood 15 feet over Charlie, peering at his brother through the glass partition. "Why are his eyes closed?" he demanded of Havercamp. "I thought you said they used a local for this."

She stood next to him and watched a nurse shave a crop circle in the center of Charlie's chest, directly over his breastbone. "He may have lost consciousness due to hypotension," she hypothesized. "A sudden drop in BP is one of the symptoms of cardiac tamponade."

"Why?" Don wanted – _needed_ – to know everything.

"When there is a rapid increase of fluid in the pericardium, it elevates the pressure on the heart. It prevents proper filling of the ventricles, and there is ineffective pumping of the blood."

Don watched the almost-artful placing of sterile drapes and shuddered. Maybe he _didn't_ want to know everything. "I didn't expect him to be sitting up like that," he shared.

Havercamp nodded. "The patient is kept at a 35 to 40-degree angle during a pericardiocentesis. It helps with breathing – he'll likely be sitting up like this for the next several days – and also with drainage of the pericardial fluid."

Don stiffened when Dr. Linton placed two gloved fingers of one hand in the center of  
Charlie's chest, and picked up the biggest needle he had ever seen with the other. "That's gotta be four inches long!" he breathed.

"Probably," Havercamp agreed, which did nothing to make him feel better. He closed his eyes and swayed almost imperceptively when the needle entered his brother's chest.

Lee Havercamp pretended not to notice and quietly narrated. "The doctor will use the echo to check for proper placement of the needle. If Charlie were awake, he would feel some pressure – but he's been feeling that from the build-up of fluid, anyway. When the needle is in the right location, it will be removed and replaced with a catheter. They'll remove as much fluid as they can right now, and then suture the drainage tube in place. A drainage bag will be left in place for a few days, and then all will be removed."

Don opened his eyes again and frowned. "Can this happen again? Why did it happen at all?"

"In this case," answered Havercamp, "we already know that there is a bacterial infection. That is already being addressed with antibiotics. She glanced sideways at Don. "But yes, it would not unusual for this to happen again. Recuperation can take up to three months, and pericarditis and its complications can reoccur."

"Great," mumbled Don, moving a little closer to the glass. "What do we do about shutting down St. Michael's?"

She sighed. "The administrator and chief-of-staff are on their way in to meet with me right now. At this point, all we have is suspicion of a secondary _brucella_ release. It could take us days, if not weeks, to confirm that with HazMat testing."

Don dragged his eyes away from Charlie long enough to look at her. "You're the CDC, dammit – shut them down while you're looking!"

Havercamp tilted her head. "I have an idea that might lend me some authority in that arena." Don raised an eyebrow and she continued. "St. Michael's has a transplant program. I was checking the census and there are patients who have been here for six weeks or longer – that means they could not have been infected through _Bernie's Diner_ or his ice cream. If I can find _brucella_ in their blood tests, it will prove that it has been released here in the hospital. I've already ordered the testing of those four patients."

Don grinned and turned back to the window. "Way to think like an investigator," he congratulated. "Hey," he interrupted himself. "Charlie's moving around."

Havercamp moved a little closer to the glass. "That's good – and bad," she commented. "There is often remarkable improvement with the removal of even 50 ml of fluid, so I'm not surprised he regained consciousness. On the other hand, this is not the best time to do that. The catheter is still draining, and the tube has not been sutured into place yet…"

Don swore under his breath. "He's probably freaking out," he said. "What a place to suddenly wake up – he's gotta be scared to…" – he started to search the perimeter of the observation theater – "…is there a speaker or something in here? Can I talk to him?"

"There," Havercamp pointed, and Don finally saw the intercom on the wall not two feet from where he was standing. He moved to it quickly. Havercamp was right behind him, reaching around to depress a recessed button he had not even been able to see.

"Now," she urged quietly.

"Charlie." Don spoke into the intercom but kept his eye on the window. He saw several people glance up toward the observation room. He spoke a little more loudly, in his best Team Leader voice – a voice he had originally developed with years of experience as Big Brother. "Charlie, calm down. Calm down; you're fine. I'm right here, buddy. It's almost finished." He saw someone bend down to speak into Charlie's ear, pointing up to the observation room. Other personnel stepped out of the way to clear Charlie's line of vision, and soon Don saw his brother looking up at him, his eyes terrified.

Don smiled, and lifted a hand in greeting. "Hey, Buddy," he soothed. Charlie tried to lift his own hand, but a nurse grabbed it to prevent him from moving. Even through the window Don recognized the frustration in Charlie's eyes. "Stop giving them a hard time, Chuck," he teased. "Just relax, and I'll see you soon." Charlie started to shake his head. A nurse clamped a hand on either side, and his eyes grew almost black with fear.

"Hey," Don said into the speaker. "Hey, listen, Charlie. Do..do you remember, when Dad decided to teach us to swim?" He lifted his palm to lie flat against the glass, almost as if he was visiting Charlie in prison. "He and Mom took us to that little lake about an hour outside of L.A. Remember?" Charlie blinked, and Don kept rambling. "It was a great day, wasn't it? I was about ten, so you were only five – Mom kept telling Dad you were too young. She didn't know one of your tutors already taught you to swim in his pool, with his kids. She was standing on the dock, arguing with Dad, and none of us noticed that you were slipping away. She screamed like a little girl when we all heard the splash – you just trotted to the end of the dock and hopped in the water. Mom and Dad were about to jump in after you when you popped up and started doing the backstroke. 'Come on, Donny,' you yelled. 'It's fun!'" He heard Havercamp chuckle beside him and Charlie's eyes began to calm, and then droop. Encouraged, Don went on. "That's it, Buddy – just close your eyes and think about that day. Mom had fried a chicken to bring along, and made some of that great potato salad of hers. After, we all hiked around the lake and picked wild blackberries, eating them right off the vine; you were such a mess Dad dipped you in the lake again to wash you off. By the time we got all the way around the lake, and back to our picnic blanket, we were all exhausted. We laid down on top of each other and took a nap – remember?" Don watched Charlie's eyes drift all the way closed. "Just sleep for awhile, Buddy," he advised quietly, "take a nap like we did on that picnic. I'll be here when you wake up – just like I was then. Like I always will be."

Don felt Havercamp pat him on the back and paused, looking down on Charlie. His brother's eyes remained closed, and Dr. Linton turned around to look up at the observation theater. He lifted one hand, thumb-up. His eyes crinkled, and Don thought he might be smiling behind his mask.

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_**A/N #3: Well, I didn't get that far anyway; so now I can think about it a little longer…**_


	16. Just When You Think It's Safe

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem re all Numb3rs characters and characterizations. The "main hospital" featured in this fanFICTION is a work of FICTION and does not really exist in any location other than my mind. Ditto the "downtown Y".**

_**A/N: This is an INTERACTIVE reader-influenced story.**_

_**A/N #2: Give yourselves a round of applause! "Shall We Play A Game" will be translated into German and posted on a German fanfic page, courtesy of a bilingual fan who wants to share the wealth. We are an international success.**_

**The Soup Continues to Simmer…**

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**Chapter Sixteen: **_**Just When You Think It's Safe**_

Charlie would be in recovery for at least an hour, so Don used the time to head back to the cafeteria and play a little phone tag with his team. Colby was at the Craftsman; Ian had also hung it up for the night, but David was still in the office when Don reached him. He avoided the topics of the secondary _Brucella _release and Charlie's most recent complication, wanting more concrete information before he brought the others in on a hunch. "You should probably pack it in, Dave," he finally said. "There's not much more we can do tonight."

Don clearly heard the rustling of papers. "I'm just going over some of the interviews conducted by other agents this morning," Sinclair responded. "Edgarton and I checked out some known Planet Green hangouts, and they've disappeared off the face of the earth. That just ain't right. Somebody up-top's gotta be helping them."

Don stifled a yawn. "I dunno. Makes sense to me – they probably went deep under before they released that communicade to the press."

"The deeper they went, the more help they needed," argued David. "I'm gonna read the interview and dossier on Andi Sommerfield, again. In fact, I think I'd like to talk to her myself in the morning."

"Take some back-up," Don advised. "What set off the hink-o-meter on that one?"

David chuckled. "I don't know. She was a card-carrying member of PG until the Presidio incident. Nobody could ever prove she was part of that, and she supposedly severed all ties with the group at that time. She's been on the straight-and-narrow for the last two years. Too straight, and too narrow to be as nervous as she sounds in this interview."

Don made a noncommittal grunt. "Watch your back," he repeated. "I don't think these guys are going to release a bacteria twice and just fade into the sunset. There's something else coming."

After he and David disconnected, Don phoned Colby, who answered the cell immediately. "Boss," he pled breathlessly. "Need some help? I can be there in…."

Don laughed. "Be careful what you ask for, Granger. All this time you thought it was a piece of cake to be Alan Eppes' son, didn't you?"

Colby moaned quietly into the phone, dropping his voice to a whisper. "What is it with the green Jell-O®, man? I thought he was supposed to be _sick_, but he's made enough for an army, already!"

Don feigned disbelief. "What? No Grandma's Chicken Soup?"

"He's in the kitchen stirring it now," Colby admitted, and Don laughed again, briefly.

He thought of his news and sobered quickly. "Listen, Col, I hate to do this to you, but I need you to stay there for awhile. Charlie…had a setback…and I want to see him again. It could be a couple of hours."

Colby's good-natured whine turned into genuine concern. "What do I tell Alan? What happened?"

Don sighed. "Look, just tell him I'm with Charlie. I'll tell you both everything I know when I get home." He grinned into the phone. "Okay, Bro?"

He could almost hear Granger's eyes rattle in his head as he rolled them. "Knock it off," he started, and then interrupted himself. "Alan, you didn't have to…"

"Eat up, son," Don heard his father say. "Save room for dessert – I made Jell-O®!"

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Amita had tried to call Charlie again, but there had been no answer in his room. She knew that Alan must be going crazy, not being allowed to see his son, and she didn't want to make it more difficult for him, so she didn't call. She tried Don twice, but both times his cell was busy. She ate the soup and half of the sandwich Larry had brought, feeling much better than she had in days, and then tried Don again. Still busy.

Finally she gave up, took a long, hot shower, and fell into bed. It was early, but days of feeling unwell plus the emotional roller coaster of the last several hours were catching up to her. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

It seemed like only seconds later that the chirping of her cell dragged her out of her slumber. Eyes still closed, she stuck out one hand to search the bedside table blindly. Finally hitting upon the phone, she flipped it open and brought the cell to her ear while she flopped onto her back. "Don?" she croaked sleepily.

"Oh. Forgive me, Dr. Ramanujan. Did I wake you? I didn't think 9 would be too late to call."

Amita opened her eyes and blinked lazily at the ceiling, trying to place the voice. "What?" She cleared her throat, trying to pull herself together. "I mean, who? Who is this?"

The voice became even more apologetic. "Kristy. Kristy Melbourne? I was your technician earlier this evening at the Oceanside hospital?"

Ah. With that clue, she could place the voice. Amita gripped the phone a little tighter, definitely awake, now. She slid out from under the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. "Were you able to get the results earlier than you thought? Should Dr. Fleinhardt and I come in?"

Poor Kristy sounded as if she wanted to cry. "No, no, ma'am. The _Brucella_ tests will be ready in the morning, just like we told you."

Amita frowned, and reached up to push her dark hair behind her ear. "I don't understand," she admitted, confused. "Can I do something for you?"

She could hear the technician inhale deeply over the cell. "I'msosorry," Kristy said in a rush. "It'sbeensocrazyhereandIdon'tknowwhathappenedandI'msosorry…"

Amita almost smiled. The girl sounded like one of her students about to tell her the dog ate her homework. "Calm down," she soothed. "What seems to be the problem?"

Another breath. "It's our practice to run the test twice, you see. Another technician will double-check the first results." She began to speed up, again. "As soon as I saw the report, I ran the test a third time. I'msosorry. Idon'tknowhowImixedupyoursamples."

Amita's eyes widened and she stood, barefoot, at the side of the bed. "Whose samples?"

Kristy giggled, a nervous reaction. "You and Dr. Fleinhardt."

Amita began to sway. "Surely Larry is not pregnant."

"No," agreed Kristy. "But _you_ are."

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Don was about to get some dinner in the cafeteria when he remembered that everything could be contaminated with _Brucella_. He lost his appetite fast, and decided to go wait in Charlie's room for his brother's return.

Charlie was already there – awake and deliriously happy – when Don pushed through the door. "Donny!" He kept one hand cradled just below the drainage bag but fluttered a half-wave with the other. "I feel much better."

Don smiled and approached the bed. "That's great, Buddy. Havercamp said that the improvement would be immediate when the fluid was drained." He winked. "Of course, I'm sure it doesn't hurt that the local's probably still working."

Charlie smiled, loopy. "Okay," he agreed amicably. "I can breathe, now." He frowned, wiggling his nose, trying to dislodge the oxygen canula. "Take this thing off."

Don pulled up a chair and lightly admonished him. "Leave it, Charlie. We need to make sure this doesn't happen again. They'll take it off when it's time."

Charlie blinked at him over the rail of the hospital bed. "I feel like dancing," he said.

Don suppressed a laugh. "Please don't," he begged. "I've seen you dance."

Charlie's eyes widened and filled with tears, much to Don's dismay. " 'Mita _likes_ to dance with me," he sniffed pathetically.

Don leaned forward and raised an eyebrow. "Ask yourself this, Buddy. Does she dance with you in public?"

Charlie opened and closed his mouth a few times, reminiscent of the koi in the backyard pond, then suddenly giggled at the ceiling. "WE BOOGIE IN THE SHEETS!" he yelled, and Don stood, horrified.

"Charlie! Geez, dude, keep it down!"

Charlie moved the hand under the drainage bag a little, and winced. "That sort-of hurt," he whispered confidentially.

Don sat down again. Charlie was wasted, and probably wouldn't be able to follow the conversation, but he had to try anyway. "Listen, Chuck, I'm glad you're feeling better. We may have to move you, tomorrow."

"Seventeen," Charlie answered.

"Right," Don agreed. "Seventeen what, again?"

Charlie tilted his chin as far back on the pillow as he could. "There were seventeen ceiling tiles in that other room," he shared. "You can count the ones in here."

Yeah. Charlie definitely was not going to be any help on this one. "I've got it," Don assured him. "But you know I'm slower than you are. Why don't you take a nap, and I'll tell you when you wake up?"

Charlie lazily rolled his head on the pillow until he was facing Don again. "Do you think I should have a baby?" he asked.

Don couldn't stop himself from laughing at that. He couldn't quite think of an answer, either. Charlie kept talking through a yawn. "I might, you know. Someday."

"You two keep at it like bunnies and it may be sooner than you think," teased Don.

Charlie yawned again, then smiled. "Bunnies," he repeated, closing his eyes. " 'Mita is my rabbit's foot. I like to rub her for luck."

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Lee Havercamp stood next to the technician in the lab and leaned over the microscope. She studied the sample for a moment, and then pulled back. "I concur," she said to the Chief of Staff, who was standing a few feet away.

He dropped his face into his hands. "What a nightmare," he moaned. "We're going to have to shut down and decontaminate everything."

She agreed again. "If you take voluntary action at once, I can hold off on a CDC-mandated closure," she offered.

He looked up, and sighed. "Well, that's something, I guess." He started to lead the way to the door. "I'm going to need your clout with the other hospitals, getting all these people moved."

"Of course," she murmured, following close behind.

"I'll set you up in an office," he said, holding the door open for her. "This could take a while."

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_**A/N: Long night for the Numb3rs crew…what will the morning bring?**_


	17. Oreo Cookies and Pineapple Ice Cream

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem re all Numb3rs characters and characterizations. The "main hospital" featured in this fanFICTION is a work of FICTION and does not really exist in any location other than my mind. Ditto the "downtown Y", as well as whatever else I decide to make up.**

_**A/N: This is an INTERACTIVE reader-influenced story.**_

**Meanwhile, back on The Farm…**

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**Chapter Seventeen: **_**Oreo Cookies and Pineapple Ice Cream**_

Don employed the Oreo® pattern of disseminating information: Start with good news, sandwich the bad news in the middle, and finish with more good news. At the breakfast table, he smiled confidently and informed his father and Colby that Charlie was quite literally feeling no pain when Don had last seen him late the night before.

Colby paused in his reckless inhalation of hash browns, reaching for a glass of orange juice -- all three men had refused milk. "Did he have a fever? That little dude does some real weird sh..." -- he glanced guiltily at Alan -- "...stuff, when he has a fever."

Don furrowed his brow. "Have I told you 'Charlie fever' stories?"

He could have sworn the younger agent began to blush, but he couldn't be sure. Colby tucked his head down and attacked the mound of scrambled eggs. "Uh...yeah," he muttered. "You must have."

"Huh," Don observed mildly, buttering his toast. "Didn't remember that. Anyway, no, his fever is not real high -- still a little elevated but nothing that would cause him to act strange. He was given some Demoral. He always was a lightweight when it comes to pain medication."

Alan snorted and looked up from his own breakfast. He raised an eyebrow. "I seem to recall a certain federal agent singing almost an entire baritone aria from _Don Giovanni_; off-key and flat, I might add."

Colby snickered into his eggs and Don protested mightily. "Hey! That was morphine, and I'd been _shot_, for cryin' out loud!"

Alan's teasing smile faltered as he remembered the frantic trip he and Margaret had made to Albuquerque, and he quickly changed the subject back to Charlie. "Why did he need Demoral?"

Don seguewayed into the middle of the Oreo® -- the bad news -- and informed his audience about Charlie's cardiac tamponade and pericardiocentesis procedure. Almost as an aside he added the fact that the secondary release of _Brucella_ was at St. Michael's, and all of the patients needed to be released early or transferred to other facilities. Both Colby and his father were staring at him, their faces registering varying degrees of shock, when he finished speaking.

"Holy sh...crap," Colby breathed. "I took _one_ freakin' night off!"

Alan transformed into a machine gun, shooting rapid-fire questions at Don. "How is he? When can I see him? Where will he go? How soon is this going to happen? Why didn't you call, or at least wake me up when you got home!?"

Don ignored all the questions and placed the final tasty chocolate cookie on the Oreo®, transitioning back to good news. "I got a call on my cell from Larry just before I came downstairs. Amita's _Brucella_ test is negative." He tried not to smile inappropriately. "I'm pretty sure his will be also. Charlie never took him to the diner, so he couldn't have ingested the milk. The other modes of contagion...don't really apply. I just had him get tested because it seemed to make him feel better -- and I thought it might help Amita; make her feel less alone."

Alan, who had been the one to model the Oreo® technique for Don during his growing-up years, narrowed his eyes. "You didn't answer my questions."

Don sighed, not really all that surprised. Like any highly trained law enforcement officer, he was ready with back-up. "I have assignments," he announced, focusing his attention on Granger. "Colby, you still feeling okay? Havercamp said some people experience problems from the high dosage of the prophylactic antibiotic cocktail." His eyes crinkled. "Although judging by the egg on your chin, that hasn't become an issue with you."

Alan smiled and Colby sullenly wiped at his face with a napkin. "I'm good," he answered when he was finished. "What've you got for me?"

"Call David and tell him you're going with him this morning -- he wants to re-interview someone with old Planet Green ties. Check back in with me when you're finished. I'm sure Lee has called in CDC reinforcements, but she may need some help on her end."

Colby nodded and Alan regarded him fondly. "Finish your breakfast first, son." He switched his attention to his eldest. "Is there something for me to do?"

Don nodded, and Alan's face lit up before he even heard what the task entailed. "Havercamp said you can't be around Charlie until your white blood cell count is normal. She indicated that could take up to a week." Before Alan protested, Don hurried on. "See if you can get in touch with Millie. The two of you together are a force to be reckoned with; you should be able to hold your own with Charlie's insurance company. Try to get him into a private hospital or rehab -- all the public facilities are already pretty full, and St. Michael's has almost 700 patients to place somewhere. I'll tell Havercamp the family will arrange Charlie's care -- that'll give her one less thing to worry about."

"Done," Alan responded immediately. "What else?"

Don grinned. "Just be careful out there; both of you. There's more information about _Brucella_ and St. Michael's in the morning paper, and we'll probably see some people running scared -- in a rush to get out of the city. Drive defensively."

Alan smiled briefly. "I started doing that the second your brother got his license, son."

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Ian Edgarton stood at the foot of Charlie's bed, regarding the flushed professor with a sardonic smile. "So. You're gonna make Don solve this one on his own, huh?"

Charlie smiled -- a tad weakly, Ian thought. "Agent Edgarton." His voice was a little breathy. "Don didn't tell me he needed a sniper on this. Have you tracked Planet Green?"

Ian shifted, widening his stance a little and crossing his arms over his chesst. "Nah. I volunteered to help however I could. Planet Green and I...well, we go way back."

Charlie nodded silently, his intense gaze saying more than words ever could. "Thanks for coming to see me," he said, changing the subject. "Don tries to, but he's a little preoccupied. Larry and Amita are out of town, and...my Dad has had the flu, so he's...not allowed."

"Sounds lonely," Edgarton noted.

"I'm okay," Charlie insisted. "I have to move somewhere...today. Did you hear they're...shutting down the hospital?"

Ian nodded. "Ran into that CDC doc downstairs." He indicated Charlie's drainage bag with a tilt of his chin. "She told me about that, too."

Charlie looked down at his own chest as if he wasn't sure to what Ian was referring. "Oh." He moved slightly on the bed, simulating a shrug. "That was kind-of freaky. I just...couldn't get enough air. Passed out. Woke up with...masked people all around me...some guy with...his hand in my chest."

Ian shuddered. "Sounds surrealistic."

Charlie lifted an eyebrow and grinned. "Yeah. They...must have given me drugs or something. I can...remember Don's voice...and a picnic we all went on...when we were kids. Strange. Something...about dancing, too."

Edgarton shook his head, smiling. "Must have been the good stuff, all right. Do you think the procedure helped?"

Charlie furrowed his brow, confused. "Yes?" His response sounded more like a question than an answer. "Seemed easier to...breathe, for awhile."

Ian frowned, and took a step closer. "It's not any more?"

"It's okay," Charlie responded. "There's...still some pressure, but nothing...like it was. Guess it takes a...few days." He grew tired of talking about himself. "What does...my brother...have you doing?"

"F.B.I. stuff," teased Ian. "I spent most of yesterday with a guy who reminds me why I became a sniper in the first place. Geez, what an annoying piece of work. Don does this all the time? No wonder he's seeing Bradford."

Charlie made a noise halfway between a choke and a laugh, and raised one hand to rest it on his chest, below the drainage bag. "Stop..." he pleaded.

Ian grinned and took pity on him. "Yeah, I should get down to the Bureau anyway. I'll hunt you down wherever you end up -- remember, I'm a trained tracker -- see you again. Soon."

Charlie held his gaze, his suddenly solemn dark eyes locked on a second pair of dark eyes. "Be careful," he said softly.

Edgarton let a cocky grin play at his mouth. "Not a problem," he answered nonchalantly, "not a problem."

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Larry sat in despondent silence for a moment before speaking. Then he regarded the Oceanside hospital's ER attending seriously. "I never should have let myself be persuaded," he finally shared. "The pineapple ice cream was so very nearly white, however. At the most, there was a 10 percent yellow tinge; I convinced myself it was the lighting."

The doctor paused in the act of ripping the prescription slip off his pad. His rapid online review of _Brucellosis_ hadn't mentioned any mental effects from the disease, but that seemed like a fairly incongruous statement. "Pardon?"

Larry reached out to accept the prescription. "I admit, I was also touched that Charles thought to bring me the ice cream in the first place," the physicist continued. "He raved about it so...and as I mentioned, it _was_ nearly white." He studied the prescription briefly before looking again at the physician. "Are you quite certain that I need this? It was such a small amount of ice cream -- I did not even finish the quart -- and it was several weeks ago. I have experienced none of the symptoms reported on the news."

The doctor decided to ignore the comments that eluded his sensibilities. "Not everyone who is exposed will develop symptoms," he informed Larry. "You may have a natural immunity. There are also those who are especially susceptible." Larry thought of Charlie; according to Don, he was not improving. On the contrary, his friend was growing worse. He tuned back in to the doctor, who was still speaking. "...you from becoming ill," the man was saying. "It's a simple prophylactic treatment. In three weeks you should see your personal physician for another blood test."

Larry nodded. "I understand. Is it safe to continue traveling with my uninfected colleague?"

The doctor nodded. "Of course. _Brucellosis_ is rarely transferred by human-to-human contact." He smiled. "There is a small window of opportunity for sexual transmission. Are you and your colleague..."

Larry interrupted him. Truly appalled, his hand flew to his ear, and fingers began to tug the lobe. "Oh my heavens, no!" he insisted. "Amita is simply not that kind of girl."

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Andi Sommerfield sat behind her receptionist's counter, the fingers of one hand worrying the other – something that did not escape David's attention. "Why do you need to speak with me again?" she asked. "I told two of your men everything I know yesterday."

Sinclair responded smoothly. "Those agents were assigned to another case, and turned their interview reports over to us. I'm sorry, we just have a few questions; there are some things we need to clarify."

One of the brokers rushed by, glancing disapprovingly in her direction, and Andi stood. "Could we step outside?" she nearly begged. "It doesn't look exactly…trustworthy…being interrogated by the F.B.I. in the lobby of a financial consulting firm."

"Of course," Colby answered. "There's an outdoor café just down the block. Why don't you arrange for a break and meet us there?"

Andi flashed him a grateful smile and quickly agreed.

Refusing to be one-upped by his partner, David released his most charming smile. "We'll order for you. Coffee?"

"Skinny iced white chocolate mocha latte," Andi replied quickly, and David's smile faltered. He wasn't even sure he could say that. She relaxed marginally and leaned into him a little; he caught a whiff of vanilla and cinnamon. "Just ask for Number 14."

He nodded and the two agents exited the building and headed down the sidewalk, Colby snickering all the way. They claimed a sidewalk table at the café and ordered. A waitress was just delivering their coffee when Andi appeared. She seemed to have taken the few minutes to compose herself – but that was fine with David. He wanted her to feel a certain amount of security before he dropped the world out from under her.

Colby had been briefed during the ride to Andi's office that morning, but David, who had spent much more time with the report, was running point on this one. "I'm a little unclear from the report," he began almost apologetically. "You were once a member of Planet Green?"

Andi sipped her drink, then set it on the taple top and smiled. "Only on the fringes," she insisted. "I was never part of what they call 'leadership', so I was never privy to such things as long-term plans. Most of the leadership lives communally, but I'm not sure where. I think they may move around a lot – sometimes it would take them longer to arrive at a meeting than it did at other times."

David nodded, and doodled in his notebook. Her smile wavered a little, and she stared at the small book – he could tell she was wondering what he had written. He doodled some more. "How did you become involved with Planet Green?"

Andi answered freely, knowing she wasn't telling him something he didn't already know. "They recruit actively on most large California college campuses. I was a junior at Pepperdine when I attended my first meeting." She giggled a little nervously, turning her cup around in her hands. "I suppose I was your typical spoiled, upper-middle-class coed. My parents were sending me to school, but I was refusing to get much out of it." She laughed self-depreciatingly. "That's why I'm a receptionist instead of a broker. I kept changing my major. When I had enough credits I took my degree, but it was in 'General Studies'. I'm not qualified for much."

David smiled. "I'm sure you're an excellent receptionist," he said smoothly, and Colby hid his rolling eyes behind his coffee cup. He waited for David's cue, primed for his turn as 'bad cop'.

Andi blushed prettily. "Thank-you. Well, Planet Green wanted me to drop out and turn my back on everything – join them. Leadership was not happy when I insisted on getting my degree." She leaned toward David a little, completely ignoring Colby. "I was just so close – less than a year to go!"

"I understand," he soothed. "But you continued to go to meetings?"

She sat back a little. "Yes. I don't really know why; it probably appealed to my desire to appear the 'bad girl'. I graduated, moved to L.A. and got a job. Six months later, three members of Planet Green tried to take down the Presidio armory. They were killed, as you no doubt know – and I got scared. It really showed me the kind of people I was playing with, how dangerous they were." She picked up her coffee, starting to feel secure again. "Well, I could not get away from those people fast enough."

David's eyes flickered to Colby and then down to his notepad, filled with nonsensical doodles. Granger moved to the edge of his chair, slamming his cup so hard on the table that coffee spilled out even though it was half empty. "How stupid do you think we are?" he demanded loudly, and Andi winced, leaning away from him and closer to David.

"I…I don't under…" she began, but Granger interrupted.

"Known Planet Green operatives are kept under surveillance by our counterterrorism agents whenever they pop above ground," he sneered. "All we need is a traffic violation to take any one of them out of commission for a few months. In the two years since the Presidio incident, you have been photographed in the company of Planet Green terrorists on at least six occasions."

Andi looked frantically at David, who sorrowfully placed the 8 x 10 glossies he had found in the system the night before on the table. "I'm sure they were probably harassing you," he offered sympathetically, and she jumped on the excuse.

"Yes! Yes, leadership knows where I work. I've…I've moved, to try to get away from them, but jobs are hard to come by!" She blinked quickly and swallowed thickly. "I _knew_ I should have quit anyway…"

Colby made a sound of disgust and leaned back in his chair, raising one leg to cross his foot over the opposite knee. "You understand that there have been fatalities. We'll catch these people – and when we do, you'd better hope no-one implicates you as an accessory. There's a death penalty now, both on the state and federal level." He snickered sarcastically. "We may have to kill these jokers, give them CPR and then kill them again." He smiled almost crazily. "You want a piece of that?"

Andi had been staring at him with ever-widening eyes, and now she turned them to David, seeking help. He quietly closed his notebook and laid it on the table. "I'm sorry," he said, and he seemed genuinely so. "My partner lacks a certain finesse."

She sounded a little frantic. "But is what he's saying true? The death penalty?"

He nodded reluctantly as if his own heart was troubled. "One of the fatalities was a child. Plus, after the secondary release of the bacteria, there will undoubtedly be more – already compromised individuals, lying in the hospital, hoping to be cured…" He clucked his tongue. "No, it won't sit well with any jury."

Andi looked nervously over her shoulder and then pushed her cup of latte aside, leaning even closer to David so she could lower her voice. "I didn't know," she almost whispered. "Please, I only helped them a few times a year, because I was afraid. Isn't there anything you can do? Can't I make some kind of…deal?"

Sinclair's eyes turned to steel, and Andi suddenly understood that she had been played by the men at this table as surely as she had been played by Planet Green. David flipped his notebook open to a clean page. "You want me to go to bat for you," he said, "you've got to give me everything you've got. After I know everything you do, then I'll decide whether or not to let you hang with the rest of them."

Colby bobbed his foot in the air and casually contradicted his partner. "She won't hang, Dave. Lethal injection in California."

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_**Mwa ha ha ha ha…Larry is infected, Alan & Millie have been unleashed on an unsuspecting society, Andi is turning tail…and what could Sarah and Aaron be up to?**_


	18. Lost in Brucellaland

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem re all Numb3rs characters and characterizations. The "main hospital" featured in this fanFICTION is a work of FICTION and does not really exist in any location other than my mind. Ditto the "downtown Y", as well as whatever else I decide to make up.**

_**A/N: This is an INTERACTIVE reader-influenced story.**_

**Meanwhile, back on The Farm…**

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**Chapter 18: **_**Lost in Brucella-land**_

At first Sarah smiled as Aaron prepared to take her picture with the cell phone. Then she thought better of it. The idea was for the murderer to recognize her photo from the one time they had met – over Joe's dead body – and she had definitely _not_ been smiling then.

The two had been up half the night preparing the text. The other half of the night was occupied in other activities. In the morning they had both been starving. They had walked to the nearest bus stop, gone into downtown L.A. and bought the prepaid phone. It was expensive, as a camera model, consuming most of the cash Sarah had left – but it had to be done. Short of presenting herself in person at the F.B.I.'s Wilshire Blvd. headquarters – a mistake that would no doubt lead to her own murder – there was no other way to insure Edgarton's cooperation. There was just enough cash remaining to purchase a second, baseline cell. Sarah still had some time on her other one, but everyone in leadership knew that number. She needed a phone known only to Aaron – and soon, the F.B.I.

The two had walked from the 24-hour convenience store to a nearby McDonald's®. There they shared a breakfast of scrambled eggs and sausage – Aaron could only afford one meal, if he hoped to leave Sarah with at least bus fare for the day. Now, they were huddled behind the building, near the dumpster. Sarah had removed her wig and glasses; Aaron had to snap her photo and make his delivery to the F.B.I. quickly. He needed to get back to coalition leadership, explain his 12-hour absence and see what was what.

He would use the bus ride to the loft in south L.A. to figure out how to get a few grenades.

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Don hadn't risen to the position of Team Leader because he was stupid. He stood behind the interrogation room window and flexed his forearm in an effort to work out the soreness. He looked away from the trio on the other side of the window – Sinclair and Granger had brought Andi Sommerfield in, knowing the intimidating atmosphere of the box would no doubt elicit more information than a sidewalk café – and glanced at the bandage on his arm. The scratch extended below the covering; Havercamp had centered the bandage over the section that had been bleeding. Now, the tail of the scratch was puffy, and red. The borders of the bandage were all breached by the inflammation of the skin below. He knew without the solid proof of fingers on skin that the area would be warm to the touch. He sighed, and brought his other hand to his forehead, to rub at a headache. His fingers slipped a little in perspiration when they made contact. _Great_, he thought. _Perfect time for an infection. From a stupid scratch!_

He lowered his hand and clutched at the base of the window, slightly unbalanced. An even more unwelcome thought occurred to him as he recalled exactly where he had received both the scratch and its treatment. A feeling of dread began to clog his chest, and he tried to calm himself with rationality. _Brucella_ was supposed to incubate for two weeks, even if he _had_ been exposed; the scratch was only 14, maybe 15, hours old. _It was an open wound_, the devil on his shoulder whispered into his ear immediately. _Perhaps that makes a difference…_

Disgusted with himself, Don tried to tune back into the conversation on the other side of the wall. Lee had already told him to stop by the Bureau's clinic for a blood test, since he had been a frequent visitor at St. Michael's. When he got a chance, later, he would – and he'd have them look at the scratch while he was at it.

He glanced at his watch. He was due soon at LAPD's Parker Center, where personnel from every conceivable agency was gathering to help in the St. Michael's debacle. He had been hoping that Ian would be able to come along to help with the briefing, but the sniper hadn't shown up in the bullpen yet that morning. He had called to say that he was stopping to visit Charlie, and then going to interview Trenton Samuelson's grandmother. It was a long shot; Trenton had been one of the three killed at the Presidio two years before. His grandmother, who had raised him right there in L.A., had shown up at the inquest and informed the shell-shocked Edgarton that she forgave him. She was still a viable woman herself – Trenton had been 19 two years ago, and Grandma barely qualified for AARP. She worked and lived in Los Angeles, and Ian thought it was possible she had maintained some kind of contact with Planet Green. Even if she hadn't, maybe she knew something that would still help them. Locations of PG's hidden "safe houses", or something. Don didn't object, although he doubted that Ian would get much from the woman. For one thing, he was a sniper, not an investigator. He rarely asked questions, in his line of work. He wasn't really "on the clock" with the rest of them, though, so Don didn't have a lot of say in the matter.

He sighed, realizing he had missed most of the last ten minutes of the interrogation, and wobbled off in the direction of the break room, in search of water.

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Cracker and Dawn were careful to observe the YMCA unobtrusively from their position on the bus stop bench across the street. Their photos had been in the newspaper that morning, along with Patty's and Sarah's. Aaron and Marcus had escaped association with Planet Green, which was good. Marcus was out now buying hair dye and other items that would help them disguise themselves enough to breach the daycare center. Aaron had been gone when they fell asleep, still gone when they woke up – but he had stumbled in around an hour before they left, an obvious hickey on his neck and a silly grin on his face. Cracker had lectured him sternly. This was not the time to be out chasing skirts. Aaron had apologized, and gone right back out again; this time to one of their lockers at the Greyhound® bus station, to bring back a duffle bag full of wigs, funky establishment clothes; cash. He had helped the two of them dress themselves; had even offered to case the Y himself. Cracker had almost taken him up on it, but this was an important job. He needed first-hand information. So he ordered Aaron to wait in the loft with Patty; sent Marcus out to the drugstore; grabbed his now raven-haired beauty by the hand; and did it himself.

There was a reason he was the voice of the coalition, after all. He alone had the stamina, the courage, to take them all the way.

And he would.

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Amita was so quiet on the way back, Larry feared she was feeling ill again. "Are you quite certain you're all right?" he asked, keeping his attention on the freeway as the vehicle hurtled toward Los Angeles. "It would seem entirely probable that you had contracted influenza, like poor Alan."

She snapped at him. "I told you, my white blood cell count is fine. Do you honestly believe I would expose Charlie to something right now? Besides," she muttered darkly, "I'm pretty sure I caught this from him."

Larry paused a beat, finally deciding to ignore that. He demurred. "I know you would never intentionally place Charles in harm's way." He shot a quick sideways glance her way. "I didn't realize that you had discussed the white…."

The snap turned into a growl as she interrupted him. "_Naturally_ I asked about it!" she huffed. "I want to see Charlie as soon as possible, but I need to know that it's a safe decision. The doctor at Oceanside even called Dr. Havercamp and read some test results over the phone; she assured me that I can see Charlie immediately."

Larry sighed, tightening his grip a little on the wheel. "That is a comfort," he murmured. "I'm afraid that I'm in the same boat as Alan, for the time-being. As long as Charles has the open drain, and there is active _Brucella_ within my system, I'll have to stay away." He sighed again. "I take relief in the knowledge that you can be with him. I'm sure he will, as well."

Larry nearly ran the car off the road when Amita suddenly, without warning, burst into tears, dropping her face into her hands. Startled, he pulled over as far as he could into the shoulder. "Amita!" he cried, turning in the seat to face her. His hand fluttered around the back of her bowed head, not-quite touching. "There, there," he soothed, at a loss. Thankfully, Megan had not been a woman prone to tears. Until this moment, Amita had not been either. "Are you quite well, my dear?"

She sobbed on, her voice an odd, hiccupping echo bouncing off her cupped hands. "I'm s-s-sorry," she answered miserably. "Y-y-you're trying to b-be n-nice, and I'm biting y-y-your HEAD OFF!" The last two words were a wail, and she brought her head up abruptly, trapping Larry's hand between her hair and the seatback. She wiped angrily at her face. "D-d-damn it."

Stunned, Larry tried to remember if he had ever heard Amita swear, before. He tugged gently on his hand, trying not to pull her hair. "It's quite understandable," he offered. "I'm sure the news of Charles' setback has been difficult to assimilate."

She shuddered slightly and inhaled deeply, wiping at her eye with one hand. She bent slightly, to lift her purse from the floorboard and bring it to her lap, to search for a tissue. Larry's hand popped free of its trap and wandered like a homing pigeon to his ear. "Is there something I can do?" he almost whispered, half-afraid of Amita's next incarnation. She shook her head miserably and he caught some movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head to look more fully into the rear-view mirror and saw that a CHP vehicle had pulled over behind him, lights flashing. "Oh, dear," he worried, watching a state trooper approach the driver's side of his own automobile. He pushed the button that would lower the power window. "I certainly can't be speeding!"Amita, still sniffing, nevertheless followed Larry's lead, first glancing in the mirror and then turning her head toward the lowering window.

The trooper stopped a few feet behind the open window, and Larry stuck his head outside, smiling nervously. "May I help you, officer?"

It was difficult to ascertain exactly at whom the policeman was looking; his eyes were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. One hand was hooked behind his belt, while the other rested almost casually on the butt of the gun in his holster. "You havin' car trouble?" he asked. " 'Gainst the law to park on the shoulder of a freeway."

Larry began to shake his head. "No, no, we're not parking. My colleague…became upset…"

The officer smacked a wad of gum loudly. He left his gun hand where it was and motioned with his other. "Put both hands on the wheel where I can see 'em, please."

Larry glanced at Amita, who was staring back at him with wide, damp, kewpie-doll eyes, and did as he was told, placing his hands in the "10" and "2" positions.

The officer came closer to the window, then, leaning slightly to thoroughly eye the interior of the vehicle. "Put the bag on the floorboard please, ma'am." Amita jumped slightly, and the bag actually slid off her lap, dumping its contents on the way down to the carpeted mat. She made a squeak of distress. The officer leaned into the car a little. "This fella been hurtin' you any, ma'am?"

Larry protested immediately. "My heavens, no!", he informed the trooper who was now six inches away from his face. "My friend has been feeling poorly for several days. I fear we started back to L.A. too soon; she could be having a relapse."

The statie ignored him. "Ma'am?" he asked again.

Amita blew her nose loudly in the tissue she had found just before she dumped her purse, and leaned back into the seat. "I'm fine," she assured both men. "Larry hasn't abused me, and I'm not too sick to go home. I want to go home."

The trooper backed out of the window and Larry continued to argue with her as if the man wasn't there at all. "Amita, Charles would want me to care for you to the best of my ability. I'm sure he is anxious to see you as well, but if you are still unwell…"

Amita interrupted him with a sigh. "Larry, you're an idiot." His abrupt silence encouraged her to look at him quickly. "A _sweet_ idiot."

The policeman had not told him he could move his hands yet, so Larry left them where they were and drew his brows together. "Pardon?"

Amita sighed again. "I'm not sick," she stated with conviction. "I'm just pregnant."

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Charlie was dozing when the two orderlies hurried into his room. "Man," vented one, flexing his arm, "that tech up in the lab damn near bled me dry. How much blood they need, anyway?"

The other snorted. "Vampira? She takes the extra home. I hear she sleeps in a coffin." He led the way to Charlie's bed. "Where's this one going?"

The first orderly shrugged. "Nurse gave you the paperwork," he pointed out.

The other orderly glared at him and raised his voice. "She did not! Just told me to move 312 and 314 – some dude named Eppes has got private transport waitin' downstairs. The other guy is..." -- he closed his eyes and thought so hard it nearly hurt -- "Simpson!" he declared happily, eyes popping open again. "Dan, or Don, or something – he's supposed to go to the basement to get in line for public transfer. They must already have the paperwork down there."

The first man regarded the patient, who was blinking at them groggily, having been awakened by the conversation. He glanced at the small white board attached to the wall, but it only contained the names of the nurse and aide on duty. He shrugged and looked back at the patient. "Who are you?" he asked. "What's your name?"

Charlie tried to shift in the bed to get a better look at the man standing nearly out of his line of sight, at the head of the bed. The one talking to him was bald, and black – like David – but the question didn't make any sense, and everything was still blurry from the second shot of Demoral he had been given right after Ian left. He tilted his head back a little, still trying to focus on the man at the head of his bed. "Don?" he asked, his voice a whisper. He cleared his throat and winced, closing his eyes. "Don. Can I have a drink?"

The first orderly had been just about to reach for Charlie's wrist, to read his bracelet, but he grunted when the patient provided his name. "Cool," he said instead. He started for the water pitcher, but could tell the patient had fallen asleep again, so he unlocked the wheels of the bed and tilted his chin at his partner. "Let's just take him downstairs," he suggested. "If he wakes up again, they can give him some water. Come on, we still gotta move Eppes and then get up to four."

The darker man nodded, pushing the bedside table out of the way. "Right," he agreed. "Let's get this show on the road."

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_**A/N: Oh, no…Charlie is drugged and lost in Brucella-land! Don's scratch is making him wobble! Amita and the trooper will probably have to give Larry CPR! What next??**_


	19. Chasing Tail

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem re all Numb3rs characters and characterizations. The "main hospital" featured in this fanFICTION is a work of FICTION and does not really exist in any location other than my mind. Ditto the "downtown Y", as well as whatever else I decide to make up.**

_**A/N: Lo and behold… "choose your own adventure"/interactive stories are a violation of the TOS of this site. The Cat takes this opportunity to clarify: Suggestions are always welcome in any review. Said suggestions may be ignored, borrowed, filed for future reference or, if there are enough of them, burned at midnight during a full moon while chanting Latin. (Oops…wrong fandom…)**_

**We Continue…**

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**Chapter Nineteen: **_**Chasing Tail**_

Ian Edgarton paused at the security desk in the lobby of the Wilshire Blvd. building and presented his F.B.I. identification. He waited for the officer to scan his thumbprint and offer him the clip-on badge that would gain him access to the rest of the Bureau. The mindless task did not require much of his attention, so he was busy replaying the interview with Trenton Samuelson's grandmother. She had spent most of the morning trying to save his soul and convert him to her own rather peculiar brand of Christianity, and didn't have anything to offer that would really help on this case. Still, he organized his thoughts for a verbal report to Eppes, concentrating hard, and making certain he hadn't missed anything. He was frowning slightly and didn't realize the security officer was talking to him until the other man nudged his hand, which was resting on the countertop, patiently awaiting the return of his identification.

Ian started, and refocused his attention. "Excuse me?"

The officer was trying to hand him his original I.D., the access badge and a cell phone with a piece of notebook paper wrapped around it. "I said," he repeated a little impatiently, "some guy was here a couple of hours ago and left this for you. Wouldn't leave a name. Said somebody paid him to drop it off."

Ian accepted the bundle, automatically searching the perimeter even though he had been told the phone had been dropped off hours before. All he saw was that a line had formed behind him at the security desk, explaining the officer's impatience. "Thanks," he muttered, moving to the public seating area located on one side of the lobby. He settled in an overstuffed leather chair, clipped the badge on his shirt in full view, and regarded the phone. Maybe he was a sniper, and not used to dealing with this kind-of thing, but it seemed suspicious to him -- he had no idea why someone would deliver this. Therefore, he should probably be concerned about prints. He stood back up, was waved through the weapons detection station when security there saw his employee access badge, and gingerly carried the phone, pinched between thumb and forefinger, all the way up the elevator to the bullpen.

When he arrived, he couldn't find anyone he wanted. Neither Eppes nor any of his team was in sight. Edgarton sighed, and sat at Don's desk. He placed the wrapped phone gently on the desktop, and started opening desk drawers. In the bottom one, he found what he was looking for -- a box of latex gloves. He quickly extracted two, put them on, and began to work on the phone bundle.

The surrounding note paper -- which, when unfolded, appeared to be about half of a sheet ripped from a spiral notebook somewhere -- contained only five words: "Read me" was printed in block letters on one line; "Look At Me" was printed directly below. Ian picked up the phone with his left hand, flipping it open. As he held the instrument, he used the index finger of his right hand to navigate through the menu. He started with the gallery, ignoring the photos that were shipped with the cell and moving directly to "custom". He selected the only picture listed there: "Sarah". It was enough of a clue that he recognized her immediately when her face filled the screen. Her hair might be longer, but it was her -- the woman he had seen at the morgue; the one he had later confirmed was a card-carrying member of Planet Green; the one identified by bulbous Bernie just yesterday -- their primary _Brucella_ release suspect.

He sensed movement behind him and looked up at Colby Granger. "She's kind-of hot," the agent noted. "Girlfriend?"

Ian sneered. _This_ was one of Eppes' best guys? "Yeah, Granger; I always wear latex gloves when I look at my girlfriend's picture on my cell phone. I like to pretend I'm wearing a condom."

Colby reddened but let the shot sail over his head. "What, then?" he asked.

Sinclair was approaching from the direction of the breakroom, two bottles of water clutched in one hand, and Edgarton waited until he joined them, passing one of the bottles to Colby. "I don't know yet," Ian finally admitted. "Somebody left the phone downstairs for me. It was wrapped in this." He indicated the scrap of notebook paper and began navigating the menu again, this time finding one message in the text message "inbox". Three heads bent low over the desk, reading:

_"Will give u PG. Planin sumthin bad. Deal. U only. 555-890-4321 4 pm."_

Colby emitted a low whistle and straightened. "Ain't no way Don's gonna let _that_ happen," he predicted.

Ian glanced at Sinclair. "You got something to copy down the number? I want to take this to the lab, see what they can pull."

David extracted his notebook and pen from his pocket and began scribbling. "Colby's right," he said, just for the record.

Ian leaned back a little in Don's chair. "I won't be alone -- I can call her from here. Where is Eppes, anyway? You guys get something from Sommerfield?"

David had copied the number twice; now, he ripped off the top sheet of paper and placed it on Don's desk. "He had a briefing at Parker Center. He called about ten minutes ago and he's on his way back. Andi gave us some drop locations where she sometimes leaves money or other supplies for Planet Green. She's pretty sure they're maintaining a cache of something in an old garden shed behind a condemned house in East L.A., too. She gave Joe Wallis and several suspicious duffles a ride there just before the Presidio incident, and six months ago she transported some other PG members to a location just a few blocks away, in the middle of the night. She thinks maybe they've been using the house as a kind of "safe" location for soldiers who were too hot for public consumption. We're waiting for Don to decide who's going to check out what."

Ian nodded and pushed the chair back so that he could stand, forcing Colby back a few feet. He reached to the desktop to grab the piece of paper in a forceps-like grip. "I'm in," he stated. "I got nothing from Granny, anyway. I'll get this to the lab -- tell Eppes I'll ride with him."

"Right," retorted Granger. "I tell Don what to do all the time."

Edgarton grinned at his sour tone. "No need to hold a grudge, Agent Granger. Make yourself useful and try to trace that number before Eppes gets here. Maybe we'll get a location to add to our afternoon jaunt."

David suppressed a smile as Colby snatched the number from Don's desk and strode, muttering, towards his own. "Who died and made _him_ Team Leader?"

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Dan Simpson was not a happy man. If it hadn't been for that stupid Planet Dweeb and their stupid bacteria, he could have stretched this hospital stay out another day; he was certain of it. He had ended his high-speed chase last week with LAPD with a roll-over bang; a concussion, three cracked ribs and internal bleeding. The county didn't want him in its lock-up until he was deemed well enough at least for the infirmary. Speeding and eluding a police officer didn't qualify him for a guard at the hospital, either. So, he'd been milking his injuries for all they were worth. For one thing, the accommodations beat county lock-up – even the food was better. For another, if he could stall until he could move a little better, it would be a piece of cake to walk right out of here and disappear. He'd never even be arraigned.

Thanks to Planet Idiot, though, he was now slated for early release. All the hospitals in the area were overrun with their own patients and the St. Michael's transfers. The doc had come in that morning, taken at least a quart of his blood for some test, and informed him he'd send the results on to the jail.

Ab-so-fuckin'-lutely perfect.

After a few minutes of sulking, Simpson levered himself painfully out of bed, tottered with tiny, hunched, measured steps to the door, and peeked out into the hallway. Foot traffic was unbelievable; nurses and orderlies and EMTs were pushing gurneys and hospital beds all over the place. He smiled, scooting back and pushing the door shut. He moved toward the closet in the corner. This might work out after all. No-one would notice. He would get dressed, and…

He cursed, staring at the empty closet that had been lurking behind the door. Bastards had taken his clothes, his shoes; he didn't even have one of those flimsy hospital robes. Even on a day like today, someone was bound to take notice of a man who could barely walk, stumbling bare-ass and bare-foot out the front door.

He was still considering his options when he was nearly knocked over by the entrance of two orderlies, who pushed through the door as if the room was on fire, or something. He swore and staggered back a step, automatically clutching at his chest. "Whoa," said the bigger of the two. "Sorry, dude. You should be in bed."

His partner chimed in. "Hop back in, pronto. Your private ride is here. We've gotta take you downstairs."

Simpson sighed, a little surprised that his "private ride" didn't just come up to get him. Damn lazy cops.

The door opened again and a harried nurse poked her head inside. "Demetrius," she begged the bigger man, "I need some help subduing the guy in 307."

He shot his partner a glance. "Be right back," he promised, and the other orderly nodded. No-one helped Dan back into the bed, and he was pretty P.O.d about it until the orderly reached for the bathroom door. "You got anything in here, Eppes?" he called, going inside the small room to search for errant toothbrushes. His voice floated out to Simpson's ears. "I don't know how you rated Laurel Heights, man. Best damn private rehab in the city, Eppes."

Carefully, painfully, Dan turned away from the bathroom, burying his head in the pillow. It was obvious these clowns had mixed him up with someone else, and were sending him somewhere much preferable to county lock-up. As unobtrusively as possible, he brought his left hand up, and rested it between the pillow and his head. By the time the orderly came out of the bathroom and started banging around in the closet, Simpson was doing his best imitation of a beaver – chewing off his I.D.

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The pressure in his chest was nothing new. What had awakened Charlie was pressure somewhere else. He blinked groggily, reclining at his 30-degree angle, taking in all of the activity around him. A few careful turns of his head, and it became clear to him that he was no longer in his room. In fact, this looked suspiciously like a hospital corridor.

A very busy hospital corridor. His bed was pushed up against one wall, a small portable oxygen canister nestled between his knees. Hospital personnel streamed past without even looking at him. Most unexpected, there were literally dozens of other patients in the hall, as far as the eye could see. Beds were pushed against one wall in a steady chain, headboard-to-footboard. Close to the opposite wall, several people sat in wheelchairs. IVs swung from poles attached to the beds, or rolling stands sitting next to the chairs.

Charlie felt the unwelcome pressure again, and he moved a little in the bed. "Where am I?" he asked, his voice plaintive and largely ignored in the furious bustle.

An old man in a wheelchair on the other side of the hall shot a toothless grin his way. "Bout time you woke up, young'un. They must have you on some good stuff, to sleep through all this."

Charlie shifted again. He was going to have to get up soon, or regret it forever. "Where am I?" he repeated.

"Downstairs," the old man replied briefly, looking away again.

Charlie tried to think, to remember. Had he been taken to X-ray again? Was it "downstairs", and should this many people be waiting in line? "I have to go," he semi-moaned, ripping the oxygen canula from his nose and roping the tubing over his head.

His new friend looked back at him. "We're _all_ going, son."

Charlie shook his head and started fiddling with the rail on the bed. "Bathroom," he whispered, embarrassed.

If he'd been less frantic, he would have been surprised when the old man pushed up on the arms of his wheelchair and stood. The geezer wobbled for a moment, waiting for a jogging orderly to pass, and then worked his way slowly across the space that separated them. "Could try to get one of these people to stop and help you," he offered as he drew closer, "but I wouldn't place no bets on that. Just got back, myself – I tried to flag someone down for 'near 20 minutes."

He had reached Charlie's bedside now, and he deftly lowered the side rail. Already in a semi-sitting position, it wasn't as difficult for Charlie to swing his legs over the side as it might have been otherwise. "Thank-you," he murmured, fisting the mattress with both hands and preparing to push himself off the bed.

The old man shrugged. "T'aint nuthin. There's a men's room not 15 feet down that way." He pointed, then looked at Charlie again, a little doubtfully. "You able to walk that far, young man?"

Charlie possessed the motivation of a full bladder. "God, yes," he grunted. He barely even noticed the cold linoleum on his bare feet as he lurched off down the hall.

His savior watched him until Charlie turned into the restroom, then turned and eyed his wheelchair across the hall. The short trip had taken more out of him than he had thought possible. "Gonna have to put the rail up again when he gets back," he reasoned. "Ain't safe, not havin' the rail up." He perched gently on the side of the bed, deciding to wait until Charlie returned.

He really intended just to sit there on the edge.

Next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, riding the bed at break-neck speed down the hall. He tried to sit up and protest, but the orderly at the head of the bed called out to him. "Just go back to sleep, Mr. Simmons. You'll be at county in no time."

He stopped mid-sentence, confused. Simmons was his name, all right; he must have had some kind of black-out again. "Where's that young man?" he asked, feeble and frightened, and regretting every last drunken weekend of his life.

"Go back to sleep," the orderly suggested again. "Maybe you'll dream about him again."

"This…this is all a dream?" Simmons asked, befuddled.

"Gotta be," responded the overworked orderly. "Either that, or a nightmare."

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Millie disconnected her cell phone and laid it on the kitchen table. She picked up her mug of hot tea and smiled at Alan. "It's all set," she assured him. "You're sure you don't mind if Larry stays here instead of going directly back to the monestary?"

"Of course not," Alan answered, ignoring his own mug. "We can distract each other; I'm sure he's anxious to see Charlie himself."

Millie chuckled. "Talk Colby into staying a few more days and you'll have quite the dormitory going."

"That would be fine with me," he retorted. "The more the merrier." He winked at Millie. "You're invited, of course."

She laughed aloud at that. "I think not, Mr. Eppes. Perhaps the next time you're here _alone_…"

Alan smiled at her teasing tone. "Larry's going to help cover Charlie's classes, then?"

She nodded. "He assures me that he feels absolutely fine; no symptoms whatsoever."

"Good," nodded Alan, relieved. "We'll keep a close eye on him, just the same."

"Of course," Millie agreed, checking her watch. "They should be here in about half-an-hour. Larry will just come directly here. I'll give Amita time to freshen up, and then she and I will go to Laurel Heights. Charlie should be settled in by then."

"I can't thank you enough for helping me with this," Alan said sincerely. Millie smiled at him, but his expression grew doubtful. "Are you sure it's wise for Amita to go? I know she doesn't have _Brucella_, but didn't Larry say she'd been ill? Perhaps she has the same thing I've had."

Millie shuddered slightly and shook her head. "Whatever you do, don't say that to her," she advised. "She nearly took my head off when I said nearly the same thing. She went on for a couple of _minutes_ about her right to see Charlie – Larry finally took the phone away from her! Even he assured me that she has complete medical clearance, from Dr. Havercamp as well as the Oceanside doctor."

"That's odd," Alan observed, frowning slightly. "That doesn't sound like her at all."

"No, it doesn't," agreed Millie. "If I didn't know better, I'd think…" She stopped suddenly, blushed a furious red and buried her face in her cup of tea.

"What?" asked Alan, slightly alarmed. " _'If you didn't know better'_ what?"

Millie took her face out of her tea and shook her head. "Nothing," she answered. "Impossible. It's probably just been making her crazy to hear all this news long-distance and not be able to be with Charlie."

Alan nodded, relieved. "I'm sure you're right," he said.

Dr. Mildred Finch, CalSci's Division Chair of Physics, Mathematics, and Astronomy, remained silent. She studied the tea leaves – and did the math.

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_**A/N: Will Charlie be the last to know? How will he react, all befuzzled, when he realizes he has lost his bed? Will his insurance pay for Dan Simpson's stay at Laurel Heights?**_


	20. That's Fairly Disgusting

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem re all Numb3rs characters and characterizations. The "main hospital" featured in this fanFICTION is a work of FICTION and does not really exist in any location other than my mind. Ditto the "downtown Y", as well as whatever else I decide to make up.**

_**A/N: The Cat takes this opportunity to clarify: Suggestions are always welcome in any review. Said suggestions may be ignored, borrowed, filed for future reference or, if there are enough of them, burned at midnight during a full moon while chanting Latin. **_

**When Last We Left Our Hero…**

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**Chapter Twenty: **_**That's Fairly Disgusting**_

The bathroom may have only been 15 feet away, but by the time Charlie arrived he was exhausted and weak; unable to stand at the urinal like a man. Embarrassed, even though there was no-one else in the place, he shuffled barefoot into one of the stalls and sat to do his business, trying not to think about what was on the floor. He giggled almost wildly: Why worry about bacteria when he already had a bellyful?

He half-sighed, half-yawned, and adjusted the drainage bag a little. The ominous slosh registered even in his somewhat-befuddled brain; he would have to get someone to empty that. He shivered, and looked down his naked chest to the tube sticking out of it, and the attached bag. "That's fairly disguting," he whispered, wrinkling his nose.

The pressure upon his bladder relieved, Charlie painfully and carefully pulled himself up, using the toilet paper dispenser for leverage. He exited the stall and spent considerable time washing his hands; not so much for hygienic reasons, but because he was freezing. All he was wearing was a thin pair of cotton hospital pajama bottoms. Charlie spent so long at the sink his knees began to wobble. Reluctantly, he turned off the water and headed back for his bed in the hospital corridor – he couldn't wait to get under the covers again.

It had long been idiosyncratic of his nature that Charlie counted his steps, when his mind was not otherwise occupied. His steps right now were short, abbreviated – quite possibly his return trip down the hall was taking even longer than his original trek to the bathroom. Still, his destination had been reached with 21 shuffling steps – and he was already up to 30.

He paused, confused, and looked around. His sense of landmark was discombobulated; there seemed to be fewer beds now than there had been just a few minutes ago. Moreover, none of those beds were empty.

An orderly brushed past him pushing a passenger-free wheelchair. He raised one hand slightly to try and flag him down. "Excuse me," he started.

To his credit, the orderly actually heard him, and paused to give Charlie the once-over. "Better find your bed, buddy." The use of Don's special nickname for him nearly brought tears to Charlie's eyes, and he smiled tenderly. "This your chair?" the orderly continued. "I was taking it to transport – found it empty in the hall."

Charlie wavered-in-place and frowned at the chair, blinking solemnly. "I have a bed," he finally decided.

The orderly nodded. "Right. Better get back in it then – you're turning blue."

Charlie wasn't thinking clearly enough to understand if the young man meant that Charlie was cold, or if he knew he was supposed to be on oxygen. He shook his curls slightly. "I need…"

The orderly was moving again, and called back over his shoulder. "Be back in a few, dude; transport needs as many chairs as they can get!"

A gigantic shudder shook Charlie and he stood, bereft, in the middle of the hall. He looked around again for his empty bed, or the old man who had helped him. His eyes met the brilliant blue stare of a woman about Don's age, who was reclining in a bed at the same 30-degree angle Charlie should be enjoying. She motioned with her hand for him to come hither. As much to get out of the flow of traffic as for any other reason, Charlie did. "I lost my bed," he confided quietly.

She smiled, and motioned him even closer. "Not supposed to talk," she whispered.

Charlie lowered his own voice to match. "I lost my bed," he repeated.

"I heard," she whispered, picking at the top blanket on her bed. "Take this; just came out of the oven. Bed must be further down. It'll keep you warm while you look."

The speech had obviously exhausted her, and she sagged into the pillow, but continued to pluck at the warming blanket. "I couldn't," demurred Charlie.

"Please," she insisted.

Charlie knew he should protest more, but he was so cold he was almost salivating at the thought of the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Finally, he accepted her gift. "Thank-you," he whispered, and she smiled and patted his hand, resting on her hospital bed rail.

He couldn't really move well enough to swing the blanket around his back, but Charlie managed – with the help of his Good Samaritan – to turn it into a superhero's cape eventually. He whispered his thanks again and decided he had turned the wrong way when he came out of the bathroom. Hoping to find either his bed or another kind stranger before his feet fell off, Charlie shuffled off in a direction opposite that from which he started.

He passed the bathroom and moved on. Traffic was definitely thinning out in the corridor. Charlie came to an impasse – he must turn either right, or left – and looked over his shoulder awkwardly. He was fairly certain he was not under the influence of any drugs. For one thing, the last hit of Demerol that he remembered was just before Ian had come to visit; surely that was hours ago? It _felt_ like hours ago…and he had that "morning-after" quasi-hangover headache that he always endured when serious painkillers bled out of his system. Finally, the pain was definitely no longer subdued. The incision where the drainage tube was stitched in place _hurt_. The bag of fluid had become so heavy by now, he was supporting it with one hand underneath the blanket, so that it didn't pull out the tube. And even though his pericardium was obviously draining, there was constant uncomfortable pressure in his chest, and his breathing was becoming labored after so long off the oxygen.

He wondered vaguely if the pill forms of the antibiotics were working as well as the IV version; perhaps they should have left him on those for another few days. Then he remembered Lee Havercamp coming to see him late last night, and telling him about the secondary _Brucella_ release. She said that until patients were transferred, they had decided to DC almost all IVs, for fear that the bacteria was in the saline supply. The conversation and the feeling of dread all came back to him in a powerful rush, and he staggered sideways half-a-step while searching the corridor behind him one last time for his bed.

At length, in desperation borne of the soup of fear, exhaustion and pain, he turned right. The change was instantaneous; there were no beds or wheelchairs in this hallway at all. There wasn't even any foot traffic. Charlie started to turn around, but found his attention captured by a vision; an oasis almost beyond comprehension teased him from behind a set of sliding glass doors.

As he approached, his feet moving toward the Promised Land on their own frozen accord, he read the square placard screwed into the wall, beside the doors: Student Nursing Instructional Lab. That would explain the no-less-than ten beds crammed into the room, each neatly made and sectioned into curtained cubicles. Some had mannequins in them; at least, Charlie truly _hoped_ they were mannequins. Other beds were empty, mocking him.

He reached the glass entry and nearly salivated, placing his free hand on the door to steady himself. Poor Charlie had no way of knowing that the current crop of student nurses had been unceremoniously yanked from the lab early that morning, and ordered to help with the evacuation. Even the anal-retentive Phyllis, teacher's pet, had been so disoriented by the news of _Brucella_, she had forgotten to make sure the door was locked behind them. She had been busy, one hand to her forehead to check her temperature, the other hand clutching her stomach. She passed through the door clearing her throat, convinced she was exhibiting all of the symptoms, and the status of the lab was the last thing on her mind. So when Charlie touched the glass, the door began to silently retract. If he hadn't so recently been to the bathroom, it would have scared the pee right out of him.

As it was, he jerked back a little, hissing when all of his pains intensified. He tried to think rationally. He remembered the crowd of waiting patients in the corridor, the busy employees who could not spare a moment to help him. Without realizing it, he had crossed the threshold and was approaching one of the beckoning beds.

He heard the door _whoosh_ shut behind him and jerked again. He turned around as if to leave, and the last vestiges of energy completely abandoned him. His knees gave out, and he expected to hit the floor, but found that he was close enough to one of the beds that he was able to latch onto the footboard with a flailing hand. _Shit_, he swore under his breath, as the pain spiked in his chest. He held onto the bed and glanced at the door. He'd never even make it that far, let alone all the way back to the original hallway.

He managed somehow to continue to support the drainage bag and clutch his blanket-cape tighter around his shoulders. _Just a few minutes_, he told himself, frozen feet almost moonwalking toward the head of the bed. _I'll just get warm, let the pain recede; I won't even fall asleep_, he promised, frigid fingers reaching to pull back the covers. _I won't even fall asleep._

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Ian Edgarton started to enter the passenger side of the SUV, pausing to call a reminder out to Sinclair. "We'll take the drops," he said. "You and Granger check out the abandoned property."

Granger yelled something back, his tone petulant, and Edgarton laughed, turning back toward the SUV. Eppes was already inside, his right arm resting in his lap, but Ian still saw the red, irritated skin surrounding a pus-soaked bandage right away. He lifted an eyebrow. "That's fairly disgusting," he noted.

Eppes had been staring out the windshield, but now he looked quickly at Edgarton and then down at his arm. "I know," he confessed. "Sorry."

Ian waited for more, which was not forthcoming. He was still standing outside the vehicle. "You have somebody check that out?"

Don sighed. The sniper imagined that the Team Leader's eyes were rolling behind his sunglasses. "Been to the clinic. They took some kind of culture and drew my blood for the _Brucella_ test. Doc said he'll give me some antibiotics for the infection, but he doesn't want to do it until he has the results of the test – wants to be sure he gives me the right thing."

Ian tapped the edge of the open door. "So," he said almost conversationally, observing the perspiration on Don's brow, "maybe I should drive."

Don glared in his direction. "I got it," he bit off shortly. "Just get the hell in."

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Dan Simmons was on the verge of tears. He had been shoved into an ambulance and spent almost twenty minutes wondering how long he would be at County – only to discover, as he was unloaded, that he had been delivered not to the county _hospital_, but the county _jail_.

Any number of harried staff had either ignored his pleas or threatened him with bodily harm unless he shut-up, and now he was arguing with an intake nurse in the infirmary. "You don't understand," he whined again. "I've got cirrhosis. I'm supposed to be at County waiting for a liver transplant!" Sudden fear pushed the despair from his face. "Unless…do they arrest people now, for drinking up their own livers? I expected to be put on the bottom of the transplant list, since I did it to myself, but my doctor never told me I could go to _jail_!"

The nurse stifled a yawn, only half-listening, and continued to read the chart before her. "Considering the speed you were going when you trashed the vehicle, Mr. Simpson, you're quite lucky to have escaped more serious injury. A few cracked ribs…"

Simmons interrupted, reaching up from Charlie's bed with an arthritic claw and coming close to latching onto her arm before she deftly stepped back. "I _ain't_ Mr. Simpson!" he insisted. "I don't drive no more, either!" He started beating on his own chest, like a demented, geriatric Tarzan. "Look, nothin' wrong with my ribs, dammit!" He held up an arm, again, and couldn't help himself when he sobbed. "Please!" he sniffed, "please look at my hospital i.d. bracelet!"

The nurse hesitated, then cautiously got close enough to twist the bracelet around so that she could read it. Her eyes grew round, and her hand fluttered to her own chest. "Oh my heavens," she stammered, looking from the bracelet to the face of her non-patient. "Oh, my heavens!"

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Millie remained silent as long as she could. She had let Amita freshen up at the house, let Larry unpack the car, let Alan fuss over everyone – and held her tongue. Now, however, they were just a few miles from Laurel Heights. She'd never be able to face Charlie in her current state of suspicion.

She eased the vehicle around a corner and took a shot in the dark. "If the baby is due in June or July," she said, "your maternity leave will coincide with summer break. You might be ready to come back for Fall Semester."

Amita, who had been silently staring out the passenger window ever since the two of them had left the Craftsman, jerked her head around so fast Millie thought she may have whiplashed herself. Amita's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Larry told you," she seethed. "That little gnome _told_ you."

Millie gripped the wheel more tightly and tried not show her shock. "It's Larry's?"

Amita reached across the space between them and slugged Millie in the upper arm – hard. "Don't be an idiot," she spat. "Of course it isn't Larry's!"

Millie tried to keep up with the flow of conversation – as well as Amita's apparent personality transplant. "Well…does Charlie know?"

Amita sniffed and looked away. "No. I just found out late last night; I don't even know how far along I am – the doctor in Oceanside told me to see an OB/GYN as soon as I could."

Millie flashed on another moment, a frozen chunk of her memory, when she had been a younger woman. Had things worked out differently, she might have a child herself right now; perhaps a daughter, very near Amita's age. She glanced quickly at her passenger and smiled fondly. "It will work out," she promised. "Charlie will be happy; Alan will be ecstatic; you'll be a wonderful mother."

Amita looked at Millie almost shyly and smiled gratefully. "Thank-you," she said softly, thinking as she looked down at her lap that her boss had certainly received the news better than Larry – who had to be resuscitated by the CHP officer's smelling salts. Millie was steering the car into the parking lot of Laurel Heights. "I just keep thinking of those childbirth videos they made us watch in junior high," the younger woman confessed.

Millie pulled into a parking space and laughed, turning off the car's engine. "That's fairly disgusting."

Amita giggled, reaching to unbuckle her seatbelt. "Could…I don't want to tell Charlie until he's better, and until I know more. After I see the doctor."

Millie reached over and patted her hand. "Of course. Understood. This is _your_ news – on your terms. Just don't wait too long."

Amita groaned as she pushed open the door. "Too much chance of discovery," she shared. "I definitely want to tell him before he…notices anything…and he sees me naked. A lot."

Millie stood at the rear of the vehicle and shook her head, waiting for Amita to join her. "Apparently," she intoned drily.

The two women traversed the parking lot, and stopped at the information desk in the lobby of Laurel Heights Rehabilitation and Recovery Center. They were assured that Professor Eppes had arrived two hours before, and directed to Wing III. Three minutes later, they stood at the nurses' station, checking-in as required.

PM Charge RN Erica Frank had just returned from change-of-shift rounds, and had been slightly taken aback by Mr. Eppes. She was looking for his chart and transfer papers when Millie and Amita appeared. Now she came around the desk and started to lead them toward his room. "I'm a little surprised that the Medical Director admitted him," she informed them primly. "The patient does not seem that ill. It appears as if he would do quite well at home." She looked down her nose at the two women. "If…no-one…is available to care for him there, I'm sure a private in-home care agency…"

Amita, hormones raging, stopped in the middle of the hall and interrupted, her tone furious. "I beg your pardon! Perhaps it's none of your damn business! Perhaps there's a reason _you're_ not the Medical Director! And _**how dare you**_ say that Charlie is not ill! He's infected with _Brucella_, and has pericarditis! He just had an emergency pericardiocentesis last night!!"

Nurse Frank frowned, and Millie placed a restraining hand on Amita's arm. "I'm sure…" she started, but Amita interrupted again, still furious.

"I don't want this woman anywhere _near_ Charlie, do you hear me?" She glared at Millie. "Was this the best you and Alan could do?!"

Erica shook her head. "The patient's records have not arrived from St. Michael's yet – we expected him to bring them with him, but the ambulance driver said he was told they would be faxed later. But this patient has _not_ had a pericardiocentesis, I assure you, at any time in the recent past. Certainly not last night."

Amita seemed stunned – or angered – speechless at that, but this time Millie spoke up. "He _did_," she insisted. "He has a chest tube, and a drainage bag…"

The RN started walking again, rapidly this time, and Amita and Millie chased after her. "He's right here," Erica announced at last, pointing to a room just ahead of them of the left of the corridor. "Charles Eppes. He was sitting up in a chair just a few minutes ago demanding chocolate pudding."

Millie and Amita bumped into each other in their race for the doorway, but didn't even notice. Amita, younger and at least temporarily smaller, was the first to arrive. She burst through the door, calling longingly as she did. "Charlie! Charlie!"

Dan Simpson looked up from the magazine in his lap, confused. "Who?" he asked. Then he recognized Erica, and smiled. "You bring my pudding?"

Millie and Erica were close enough behind Amita that they had no trouble at all catching her when she fainted.

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_**A/N: Oh, no! Amita's pregnant, pissed and lying in a tangled heap! County Jail knows Simmons is not Simpson! Laurel Heights knows Simpson is not Eppes! But does Charlie care, or will he just stay in the lab until he gets his nursing degree?**_


	21. Cops and Robbers

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem re all Numb3rs characters and characterizations. The "main hospital" featured in this fanFICTION is a work of FICTION and does not really exist in any location other than my mind. Ditto the "downtown Y", as well as whatever else I decide to make up.**

_**A/N: The Cat takes this opportunity to clarify: Suggestions are always welcome in any review. Said suggestions may be ignored, borrowed, filed for future reference or, if there are enough of them, burned at midnight during a full moon while chanting Latin. **_

**When Last We Left Our Villians…**

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**Chapter Twenty-One: **_**Cops and Robbers**_

When Cracker and Dawn returned from their morning casing the downtown Y, they brought a bag of apples and a chunk of cheddar from the farmers' market, and called it 'lunch'. The Los Angeles branch of Planet Green was, by now, all gathered in a third-floor walk-up of a ramshackle tenament near East L.A. that had teetered on the border of extinction for years.

There was only running water in one room of the flat; unfortunately, that was not the bathroom, but the kitchen. The kitchen was also the only room that had working electrical outlets. When the cadre used this location, they burned candles and camping lanterns picked up at second-hand stores, and they showered at homeless shelters. The group could have split up, or stayed at the apartment they had abandoned that morning, after Cracker kicked Sarah out; but the sense of "roughing it" and suffering for the cause appealed to them all. Besides that, Planet Green in L.A. had long ago begun to exhibit signs of inbreeding. "Leadership" was "leadership" in name only. In truth, they were lemmings, content to follow the charismatic Cracker off a cliff.

Most of them, anyway, Aaron assured himself. Even Sarah, blinded by her own bitterness and her hatred of all that even lightly smacked of _authority_, since Joe's death – she would probably be right there with Patty, Dawn, Marcus and the rest of them, if she could. They had talked, last night, in-between the repeated throes of passion; they had dared to dream. Sarah was now convinced that Joe's death meant almost as much to Aaron as it did to her, and Aaron was convinced that if he helped her accomplish this one thing – pay this one debt, and exact retribution against the pig who killed Joe – Sarah would finally let it go.

She could be a brilliant speaker, a gifted composer of revolutionary rhetoric, a brave and fierce soldier. She would make a fine 1st Lieutenant. With Cracker and Dawn gone, Aaron could assume his rightful position and steer Planet Green back to what it should be. The others would accept his leadership, and would not question his decision to bring Sarah back in. He could almost taste it.

Which was more than he could say for the 'lunch' their two 'leaders' had provided. How could anyone expect to keep an army in top shape, ready to react or attack at a moment's notice, on a diet of cheese and apples? Still, sitting cross-legged on the filthy carpet, Aaron thoughtfully bit into his Red Delicious, chewed for a bit, then added a bit of cheddar to his mouth. He chewed once or twice more, and swallowed before looking across the living room at Cracker.

"Maybe I should go to the other cache," he suggested. "Imagine it; you detonate the C-4, and the cavalry comes running. Can you see the additional havoc it would create, if someone were to lob a well-timed grenade or two as the first responders hit the scene?"

Dawn, lying on the floor with her now-dark-brown-head in Cracker's lap, squealed and gazed up at him. "It's _delicious_!" she crowed. "All that screaming, crying, gnashing of teeth – and everybody scared shitless to do anything about it!"

Marcus ventured an opinion from the other side of the room. "We've had the stuff for a while," he pointed out. "Might as well finally get some use from it." He glanced at Aaron. "We could synchronize our actions, and hit them from opposite locations at the same time. Anybody left alive wouldn't know which way to go first!"

Patty, sitting beside Cracker, pouted prettily. "What about me? I'm part of leadership, too; I want to be in on the action!"

Cracker smiled at Aaron like a loving and proud father. "I like it," he announced. "I'm glad to see you thinking like a soldier, Aaron." He glanced at Marcus, still benevolent in his praise. "The double hit is a good idea, too; you and Aaron coordinate that." Finally, he swiveled his head to lean and kiss Patty full on the lips, leaving her somewhat breathless. "We're depending on you the most, Baby. You have to liberate a vehicle, and be ready to pick us all up at the rendezvous point. It might take us hours to get across town on foot, but when we get there, you've got to get us out of L.A. fast. We'll head for the San Diego chapter."

Patty considered her role in the cadre and decided Cracker was indeed trusting her with the most important gig. She tossed her long, now-auburn hair over one shoulder. "Maybe I should finish up a disguise and go with Aaron now; pick up a van somewhere."

Aaron tried not to show a negative reaction. "Great!" he enthused instead, and started to stand. Then he frowned and thumped back to the floor. "I don't know, Cracker, what do you think? The operation is at 1400 tomorrow; if Patty finds a vehicle this early, we'll have to stash it somewhere."

Cracker nodded sagely and agreed. "Last thing we need is extraneous attention, right now," he informed Patty. "Some Bozo reports his van stolen, we don't want it anywhere near any of us."

Aaron smiled disarmingly at Patty. "You watch your back tomorrow, too. You're gonna be with the van for several hours, waiting for us. You see something suspicious, ditch."

"Absolutely," Cracker input, patting Patty on the knee. He yawned, belched loudly and placed one arm around Patty, the other hand on Dawn's breast, which he began squeezing gently. "Take some bus fare from the kitty," he suggested, looking at Aaron. "Three grenades out to do it. Dawn and I will carry one for back-up."

"No problem," replied Aaron, rising easily to his feet. "Be back as soon as I can."

"Take your time," Cracker offered magnanimously. "I'm gonna be busy for a while, anyway."

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Andi Sommerfield had told them that she left money for Sarah in the bowling alley locker, and that Sarah left a duffle of clothes and other items she could use to disguise herself there. The locker was empty now, which didn't really surprise either of the agents.

Ian _was_ surprised when Don offered him the keys to the SUV as they walked back through the parking lot. "You know the way to the bus station?" he asked gruffly.

Edgarton tried not to register shock; he'd offered to drive, after all. Eppes' arm must really be hurting. "Uh…yeah, I think I remember," he answered. He pointed the key fob at the SUV and unlocked the doors, and the two men approached their respective entrances. Almost in tandem, before either of them had climbed into the vehicle, both of their cell phones rang. They shrugged at each other over the hood of the Suburban.

"Edgarton," Ian practically spit into his cell, wandering a few feet away from the SUV.

"Eppes." Don's tone was clipped, tired, and reflected his current state of unwellness.

Each man listened intently, asked a few questions, and disconnected within minutes. They met again at the Chevy. Ian arrived first, and tilted his chin in the direction of Don's phone, which was disappearing into the front pocket of his jeans. "Important?"

Don frowned slightly. "Something's…I mean, it's good news. That was the Doc at the clinic, and he's identified the infection as staph. Best part, I'm _Brucella_-free; so he's leaving a vial of…some kind of _mycin_ for me to pick up."

Edgarton tapped his fingers on the hood of the vehicle. "You should get on that right away; could be resistant to treatment and turn into MRSA." He grinned. "Figure your family could do without _that_, right now."

Don's mouth gaped. "How the hell…" he started, and Ian shrugged.

"I read."

Don let a small smile play at his lips. "Yeah. Well, luckily, so does the doc at the Bureau clinic. He's already asked me to come in at least once a day, given me all the warnings…" – his face darkened – "…told me to stay away from Charlie…." He shook himself and focused on Ian's phone, which the other agent was still holding in his hand. "What about your call?"

Ian sighed. "That was Agent Horn. The lab geeks traced the GPS chip associated with the number Sarah sent me, and Horn and his partner went to the location. They had her picture, and were just going to sit on it for a while, see if she showed up – a small bakery near the federal building."

Don looked interested. "And?"

Ian made a slight noise of disgust. "Apparently, your office needs to brush up on the concept of a stake-out. They must have stuck out like sore thumbs. Not five minutes after they got there, some waitress comes running across the street and walks right up to the car; asks if they're feds. Horn figured they were busted anyway, so he confirmed. Gal hands him a GPS chip and a one page note – same block letters as on the one I got. This one says, _'Don't insult me again. Children will die.'_"

Don grimaced, looked at his watch. "You're making the call from the office, with all of us there," he ordered, not for the first time. "We'll try for a trace, but it sounds like she's smart enough to anticipate that." Don started for the passenger door again. "We've got almost three hours – let's check out the bus station and then check-in with David and Colby."

Ian nodded and moved toward the driver's door. He glanced at Don again as they both climbed inside. "So what's bothering you about the staph?"

Don looked back at him, once again impressed with Edgarton's perception. "I don't know," he admitted. "It just seems weird. I've had infections before, but never staph…and this was just a small scratch that I got in a hospital. It was treated right away!"

Ian thought as he inserted the key into the ignition. "Well, you already know that I read," he teased. "I've always heard that staph is a fairly common infection to be acquired in a hospital. Patients are always going in for one thing and ending up with something else."

Something clicked inside Don, and he tried to pull it together verbally. "Havercamp said that St. Michael's just passed an inspection, and has received several commendations in the past for its high level of cleanliness. Its rate of hospital-acquired infections is ordinarily quite low. That's why she began to suspect that something new had been introduced to the hospital environment; patients were not improving. They were developing secondary problems, like Charlie, and growing worse."

Ian jumped ahead. "It's not clean, anymore."

Don nodded, arching up a little and reaching into his pocket for his cell. "It's in the disinfectant. Or the bottles that _should_ be disinfectant. Planet Green arranged for the hospital's own employees to spray _Brucella_ all the hell over the place. I'm calling Lee."

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The house was disgusting; filthy. A 'condemned' notice was nailed to the front door, and it was obvious why. Colby wasn't sure he believed Andi. Surely human beings no longer came here for shelter, no matter how desperate they were.

There was no electricity, or running water. There were, however, hot and cold running rats, scurrying from one pile of debris to another. They were making nests in discarded piles of old clothes, and had chewed holes in 5-gallon plastic buckets that contained something lumpy and liquid that Colby did not want to think about. The smell was making him ill, and his perusal of the house was fairly rapid. He had to get outside to the polluted L.A. air before he made his own contribution to the mess and completely blew his image. David would never let him live that down.

He pushed out the back door, which was hanging by one hinge, and leaped the few feet from the porch to the backyard, avoiding a set of suspicious-looking steps. David was just coming around the corner of the house with the bolt cutters from the trunk of the F.B.I. sedan. "Next time _you_ take the house," Colby breathed, nodding at the bolt cutters. "What are those for?"

David smiled at his still slightly-green partner. "Cutting bolts," he dead-panned, and Colby rolled his eyes. David laughed and led the way to the dilapidated garden shed behind the house. "Strike you as odd, that a condemned house needs a shiny new padlock on a shed that's falling down?"

Colby followed his gaze and raised an eyebrow. "Well, well, well. Ain't that just the most interesting thing you've seen today?"

David extended the shears and snapped cleanly through the padlock, which fell to the ground. He shouldered the bolt cutters and looked at Granger, waving toward the sagging door like a 'Price Is Right' model. "I can smell the house from out here," he remarked. "I think you've earned the honors."

Colby grinned, and stepped forward. As he pulled the door open, David moved in behind him, and they both stood for a moment in the doorway, eyes blinking and adjusting to the dimmer light in the shed. It didn't take long – sunlight was leaking through several gaping holes in the roof and cracks in the framing. They could see the outline of several boxes below a blue plastic tarp, held in place at the corners with rocks.

"Wonder what they're protecting?" murmured Colby, stepping forward to pull at the plastic. The first box he uncovered was wooden, with large block letters stenciled in black on every surface: 'F1 Anti Personnel Device'. "_Holy shit_," exclaimed Granger, backing into David and stepping on his partner. "Holy shit," he repeated, not even noticing. "This place is full of grenades!"

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Aaron had approached the safe house from the rear, through the hard-packed dirt alley, so he did not see the federal vehicle in the driveway. If Granger had not yelled so loudly, giving away his presence, Aaron would have walked right into the back yard and the welcoming arms of the feds. As it was, he barely had time to skid to a halt and retreat behind the overgrown hedge that bordered the property.

Quietly he dropped to his knees in the dirt, and peered through the thick brambles. His heart fell at the sight of the open shed door, then leaped to his throat when a black man in a suit hurriedly stepped outside, followed by another who already had a cell to his ear.

Having seen more than enough, Aaron backed away as slowly and silently as he could. He would stay on his hands-and-knees for at least 25 feet before he rose and ran to the nearest bus stop, jumping on the first bus that passed.

His mind was racing even before his feet were. He didn't know if he could get in touch with Sarah again before the pig was due to call at 4. Aaron had just called, on his way to the house, and told her that Cracker and Dawn were taking down the Y at 1400 tomorrow. If he didn't reach her first, she would spill everything, thinking she was setting the sniper up for his own death – never suspecting that Aaron had failed in his mission. His stomach began to churn as he contemplated the fact that he was expected to return to the loft with grenades, as well; he would have to inform Cracker that there was a leak in the organization.

Cracker would suspect Sarah, but Joe knew she wasn't responsible; for one thing, she wanted the grenades herself. For another, he, Aaron, had been with her all night and had written the note to the F.B.I. cop himself. He jogged down the alley and hoped it was a long bus ride.

He had to think.

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Edgarton and Eppes were waiting for the manager at the bus station to let them into the locker Andi had identified as a Planet Green drop when Don's phone rang again. He had left it on in case Havercamp or the other team members called, and it was with some impatience that he recognized his father's ringtone. He sighed, shrugged at Edgarton and brought the phone to his ear.

"Dad, I'm in the field right now. I really can't talk, and I need to leave this line open. Can I call you in about an hour, when I get back to the office?" He frowned, and dropped his gaze to the floor as he brought his free hand up to cover his other ear. "What? It's kind-of loud in here."

Ian started to look away, but stopped when Don paled so dramatically he became worried he was about to have an unconscious federal agent on his hands. "That's impossible," he heard Don mumble, but was unable to make out any more of the conversation. His curiousity was killing him when Don finally disconnected and raised dark, stricken eyes to his own. Eppes still looked like he might pass out. Ian's brow furrowed and he opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but Don beat him to the punch, wavering where he stood like a man who'd had too much to drink. "Charlie's missing," he informed Ian in a tone that suggested he still couldn't quite believe the news himself. "There was some mix-up in the evacuation, and the wrong patient was sent to the private rehab Dad and Millie set up. Millie and Amita went to see Charlie and found a complete stranger, instead."

Ian tried to reassure the shaken agent. "Then Charlie must have been sent wherever that guy was supposed to go."

Don shook his head. "That's what Dad thought. Turns out it was the county lock-up, so maybe it's a good thing." He tried to smile, failing miserably. "I don't think Charlie would do too well there, even in the infirmary."

Ian stepped a little closer. "Didn't they notice their prisoner never showed?"

Don grimaced. "It just gets better and better. St. Michael's sent them some poor old guy with a similar name. They discovered the problem about the same time Millie and Amita did."

Edgarton reasoned aloud. "Maybe Charlie went where the old man should have gone?"

Don shook his head again. "That would be county hospital, and they're saying _'no'_. Dad said LAPD is getting involved now." He ran a hand over his head and looked at Ian in abject misery. "My God. Charlie's sick, and sent who-knows-where during a botched evacuation – and I can't even help! Even if by some miracle I find him, I'm not supposed to go anywhere near him!"

Ian made up his mind quickly. "_I_ can," he said, and Don gaped at him. "Drop me off at St. Michael's, get back to the Bureau and make the call at 4. Convince Sarah you're me; she doesn't know my voice. You should probably do it anyway – I don't have any experience at this sort of thing." Don opened his mouth to speak, but Edgarton didn't give him the chance to protest. "Look," he informed Eppes in a no-nonsense tone, "I'm a tracker. I told Charlie this morning that I would track him down, wherever he ended up…and by God, I will."

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_**A/N:**__** Oh, no!! Will Don be able to convince Sarah that he is Ian? Will Aaron reach Sarah in time, and convince her not to take the call at all? Did Colby break David's toe when he stepped on his foot? Is poor Charlie sleeping in the student nursing lab, or have the mannequins rebelled and taken him hostage? How much more can Amita take? Will Cracker cancel his plans when he finds out there is a leak, or will he continue to live up to his name?**_


	22. Nightmares

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem re all Numb3rs characters and characterizations. The "main hospital" featured in this fanFICTION is a work of FICTION and does not really exist in any location other than my mind. Ditto the "downtown Y", as well as whatever else I decide to make up.**

_**A/N: The Cat takes this opportunity to clarify: Suggestions are always welcome in any review. Said suggestions may be ignored, borrowed, filed for future reference or, if there are enough of them, burned at midnight during a full moon while chanting Latin. **_

_**A/N #2: Upcoming moments with Charlie definitely contain humorous situations, but are based in medical fact: When my father began to behave in odd ways, using nonsense words and completing off-the-charts connections, it was always a sign to me that I should take him to the ER and check out his pulse ox readings. The lower they were, the higher he flew.**_

**As the Body Count Mounts…**

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**Chapter Twenty-Two: **_**Nightmares**_

In a well-intentioned attempt to transfer all of the St. Michael's patients as soon as possible, it was decided in hindsight, resources had been spread too thin. When the Eppes/Simmons/Simpson debacle was verified, hospital administration reacted swiftly. All but two exits were sealed; the remaining 300 patients would be routed through either the main entrance, or the ER entrance. Security guards were placed at each of the others – in full hazmat regalia. Their job was both to assure that no-one disappeared again, and to satisfy fire code during the evacuation. As long as there was someone posted by a secured door at all times – someone capable of opening that door in an emergency -- the fire department cooperated with St. Michael's plan. Paring the exits down to two created somewhat of a traffic jam in the parking lot, as ambulances, police cruisers, medivans and private vehicles all jockeyed for position – but LAPD had officers directing traffic, so it wasn't the nightmare it could have been. Things actually began to run a little more smoothly inside the hospital – each point of departure now had additional – and more competent – personnel helping in the evac.

As each floor was emptied of patients, the hazmat team moved in. Havercamp was both relieved and appalled by Don's call. On the one hand, it would be a coup to find out so early exactly how the bacteria was released. On the other, if it really was sprayed in lieu of disinfectant, literally every surface of the hospital needed to be checked for contamination, and truly disinfected.

LAPD had several teams of detectives, armed with Charlie's most recent faculty i.d. photo, making the rounds of all the area hospitals – both public and private. The F.B.I.'s Assistant Director Wright had even chipped in, releasing two of his 'light duty' agents to leave the office and join the LAPD search squad. Edgarton was in the enviable position of making his own rules. For the most part, that was the universe in which he operated all the time anyway. Now, he was technically on vacation; not assigned to the L.A. office or any other. He didn't wait for orders. Instead, he liberated Don of a snapshot of Charlie and their father that he carried in his wallet, and had the other agent drop him off at St. Michael's.

Edgarton was nothing if not thorough, and he had learned an important lesson a long time ago: A good tracker always starts at the beginning.

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Charlie tried to roll over in his sleep. The drainage bag, by now full-to-bursting, pushed on the tube sutured to his chest, and he awoke with a start and a groan.

Had there been a physician handy, or even a nurse, he would have been told that the drainage tube inserted into his chest was not big enough to adequately drain the bacterial infection in his pericardium. It would have been explained to him once more that excessive fluid in the sac surrounding his most important organ was elevating pressure on his heart. Not only was this the cause of the continual pressure on his chest, it also meant that there was ineffective pumping of blood. Someone, no doubt, would have pointed out that his legs and feet were beginning to swell again, and that he had a low-grade fever. Almost certainly, a set of blood gases would have been ordered to see if the slow-down of oxygen-rich blood being pumped to the brain was creating a dangerous level of carbon dioxide. Charlie might have even remembered all of that himself – if it wasn't already true. As it was, he was lucky to remember his name.

Charlie couldn't seem to coax his brain into rational thought. He sat up gingerly, bright eyes flitting around the large room full of beds. Some of those beds had bodies in them, and he reasoned that he was in some kind of hospital ward. He wondered why his father had not arranged for a private, or at least semi-private room. He almost wondered why his father wasn't there, but the thought was oddly elusive, and slithered out of his brain before his left hemispheric cortex pulled itself together.

Charlie let his pudgy feet slide over the edge of the the bed, sighing in relief when his bare soles rested on cold linoleum. Looking down, he pulled back in shock at the sight of the large, grotesque _tumor_ between his pectorals. It seemed to be filled with some sort of cloudy fluid. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why someone would operate only to move the ugly growth to an external location.

It frightened him, and he moaned a sound of distress and looked around the room again. "Hello?" he called, his voice quavering. "Is anybody else awake?" He received no answer, so he stood slowly by the side of the bed. He waited for a bout of dizziness to pass, and then moved in slow, old-man steps to the glass door about 10 feet away.

The trip was interminable, painful. Tears were running down his face unchecked when he finally reached the glass. A panel retracted into the wall when he touched it. He swayed for a moment, then cautiously pushed his head and shoulders out the opening. He looked first to the left. Finding nothing familiar, he tried the right.

His eyes widened in shocked disbelief. Bipeds, encased in some form of baggy, white skin, wandered the corridor like some sort of surreal, silent nightmare. He couldn't look very long, but it appeared that they had bug eyes, and long, flexible noses that drooped downwards and attached themselves to the creature's skin. "My God," he breathed, and stumbled backwards into the room again, narrowly missing having his pounding head crushed by the motion-controlled door as it silently _swooshed_ closed.

His respirations increased and became even mor shallow as he painfully made his way back across the room. _Aliens._ The word richocheted around his befuddled brain. He was terrified as he had not been terrified since he was a child of preschool-age, awakened by night terrors; and his thoughts now were as they had been then. _Got to find Donny. Donny will help. Need Donny._

The bed closest to him was empty, so he approached the next one – one with covers tucked neatly under a mannequin's chin, its featureless face pointed toward the wall. He pawed mindlessly at the tumor on his chest and sniffed – a sound which echoed loudly in the cavernous room and added to his sense of foreboding. "Excuse me," he whispered to the plastic half-man with no legs, "excuse me. I need a phone. Is there a phone?" His roommate ignored him, so Charlie hesitantly reached out to shake the man's shoulder under the blanket.

When he did, the mannequin flopped over onto its back to stare sightlessly at the ceiling. The bed's coverings shifted, revealing more of the CPR dummy. Charlie had time to register that the patient had no arms, and his chest had been opened and buttoned back together again – just as someone had tried to do with him. He tried to gasp when the knowledge hit him that he had been kidnapped and experimented on by aliens, but he couldn't get enough air.

Even his scream was strangled, as he dropped in a heap between the two beds.

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Colby and David were still at the abandoned house, overseeing the investigation there and the removal of the grenades. Ian was at St. Michael's. So it was just Don and the trace technician.

He waited for a nod from the tech and input Sarah's number. She picked up after one ring. "You think I'm an idiot, don't you?"

Don felt his blood coagulate. He hadn't even spoken yet; there was no way she could know he wasn't Edgarton. He stalled. "I'm on time, aren't I?"

"You tried to trace the GPS," she accused. "I told you not to bring anyone else in on it!"

Don looked at the print-out of the text message that he was holding. "That's not true," he objected. "You said to be alone when I called you – and I am."

Her voice dripped suspicion. "How do I even know this is Ian Edgarton? I've had someone watching the front entrance of the F.B.I. all day, and he hasn't been spotted since before noon." It was a shot in the dark; Sarah herself was huddled in the corner of a Metro substation almost 30 miles away – and who the hell knew where Aaron was.

Don didn't miss a beat. "Of _course_ I'm not at the F.B.I.," he answered with feigned exasperation. "Didn't we just establish that you wanted me to make the call alone?"

Sarah wasn't ready to give up, yet. She had another test prepared. "Where did me meet?" she challenged.

Don was ready for that. Edgarton had briefed the team on his relationship with Planet Green already, and reviewed the finer points with Eppes on the way to St. Michael's. "The morgue," he said right away. "I saw you at the morgue, after…"

"…you murdered Joe," she finished. Then she kicked herself mentally; Edgarton would never agree to meet her tomorrow if he knew how much she hated him. She closed her eyes and ground out a lie. "After Joe made you pull the trigger."

Don noted her slip of the tongue with his hink-ometer, but changed the subject quickly. "You said Planet Green is planning something bad," Don pointed out. "Worse than the _Brucella_?"

Sarah confirmed. "The leader is crazy; he's gone over the edge. We have some C-4, and he's targeting children. A day care center."

"My God," Don breathed, but Sarah just kept talking.

"You won't keep me on here long enough to trace this call. The hit is tomorrow. I won't tell you which day care center on the phone – you have to meet me; alone. I'll take you there."

"That's not enough time for me to stop them by myself," Don argued. "I need to know now what the target is."

Sarah was already nervous and angry, wondering about Aaron, and she barked into the cell. "No! I need…safe passage; we have to talk deal before I let you have them."

Don pushed harder. "I'm in no position to offer you a deal, Sarah. You were instrumental in the _Brucella_ release, and there are fatalities. The most I can do is tell the D.A. that you helped prevent even more. Maybe I can get you life instead of the needle."

Sarah didn't really give a rat's ass, since she had no intention of meeting Edgarton in the morning – just as she had always planned to tell him this afternoon about the downtown Y. He would worry when she was 'late' that she was backing out of the deal; in truth, she and Aaron would be safely ensconced behind a dumpster, ready to lob the F1s at him like a couple of lethal baseballs. She hoped the murderer would get out of his car and wait for her on the sidewalk; but even if he didn't, Aaron would draw on all he had learned at coalition training sessions. There was a certain poetic justice in the fact that Joe himself had taught Aaron how to target a vehicle's gas tank, so that when the grenade blew – so did everything else.

Sarah tried to sound frightened, spineless, vapid – the way Patty sounded most of the time. "If I tell you now, will you still meet me in the morning? I want you to bring me in."

The hink-ometer took another hit. "Why not come in now?" Don hedged. "I can call the office, and have them send someone to pick you up."

"No!" she protested again. "You said it yourself – I'm a member of Planet Green, and we've killed people. All your little fuzz friends, they want me to pay for that." She grit her teeth, finding the next lie physically painful. "You're the only one I trust. Anybody else is sure to have an accident, or swear that I tried to escape – or both." She paused, took a breath, and moved on, glad that she and Aaron had role-played this to death the night before. "I want one last night with my lover. You took Joe from me – you owe me that much."

Abruptly and unexpectedly, a dial tone reverberated in Don's ear. "Shit," he swore, looking frantically at the tech.

The lab-coated woman shrugged. "She's either really good or really lucky. Fifteen more seconds and we would have had it."

Don swore again. "Get ready for another try," he ordered. "I'm calling her back." Without waiting to see if the tech was with him, he jabbed the 'redial' button on the phone and waited impatiently for Sarah to answer.

She made him wait seven rings, and was laughing when she finally did. "I'll do that every time you get that close to tracing me," she promised. "I'll ask you again not to treat me like an idiot. Now, do you want to hear about the downtown Y, or not?"

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_**A/N: Oh, No! Sarah proves once again that the line between genius and madness is thin indeed. Actually, Charlie did that, too. Heavens to Betsy, it's all such a nightmare…**_


	23. Tracking Charlie

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem re all Numb3rs characters and characterizations. The "main hospital" featured in this fanFICTION is a work of FICTION and does not really exist in any location other than my mind. Ditto the "downtown Y", as well as whatever else I decide to make up.**

_**A/N: The Cat refers those still reading to any other chapter.**_

**And Now…Soon To Be Made Into a Minor Motion Pictue…The Tale That Would Not Die…**

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**Chapter Twenty-Three: **_**Tracking Charlie**_

Alan sat on the decorative concrete bench amidst the ferns, and stared at the koi pond. He felt closest to Charlie here. The two of them had started this pond project together, back when Charlie had returned from his time at Oxford. Don was in Fugitive Recovery then, and neither parent had begun to make peace with the dangerous career their eldest had chosen. Working on the pond had distracted Alan. He and their youngest had drawn plans, shoveled dirt, hauled rocks, landscaped, purchased koi. It had become Charlie's private retreat; when he was troubled, Alan was sure to find him skimming the pond, or simply sitting, as he was now, and studying the patterns of the fish.

Intellectually, he knew that a good portion of L.A.'s finest was on Eppes patrol. What bothered him was that no-one he _knew_ was looking for Charlie. During his last conversation with Don, his son had urged Alan to trust 'the system'; things with Planet Green were apparently heating up once again, and none of the team could get away to join the search. Don did mention that the tracker he and Charlie had worked with before, Edgarton, was in town and volunteering to help – but Alan didn't _know_ him, so that didn't soothe him much. He wanted to be on the hunt himself, but Don had talked him out of that, too. Millie and Larry had reluctantly returned to CalSci – Larry to cover a class of Charlie's, Millie to cover one of Amita's. At least Charlie's girlfriend, bless her heart, had stayed here at the house to wait with him.

She stood a few feet to the left and in front of him, on the very edge of the pond. Her arms were wrapped around herself as if she was cold, even though the October weather was still warm. Alan suddenly remembered that she had been ill while away on her trip, and stood guiltily. "Would you like a sweater, dear? Or, we could go inside…"

Amita backed off the edge of the pond and turned. She smiled shyly. "I'm fine, Alan. I'd like to stay here for awhile, if that's all right. I feel close to him at the pond."

Alan sank to the bench again and returned her smile with a genuine one of his own. "I was just thinking that myself," he informed her. "Thank-you for staying with me; I'm sure I'd go crazy, or do something stupid like drive all over L.A. myself, if I was left to my own devices."

She continued to smile as she crossed the few feet between them. She turned again and lowered herself to the other end of the bench. "Charlie knows them all by name," she shared, indicating the fish.

Alan snorted. "Oh, it's worse than that. He has diagrams depicting the swimming patterns of each one, somewhere in the garage."

Amita giggled. "I've seen those."

Alan groaned. "It's a miracle you ever went out with him a second time. Most men offer a beautiful woman flowers, or candy. Only Charlie offers her diagrams of koi."

This time she laughed out loud. "Well, I guess I'm not much like other women," she mused, glancing sideways at Alan, "although I do thank you for referring to me as 'beautiful'."

Alan patted her jean-clad knee gently. "Stunning, my dear. By far the best-looking woman Charlie ever brought home. Counting the one during high school, that's a total of two."

Amita raised an eyebrow. "Come now, Alan – I've met Susan Berry, remember? She's…a good-looking woman. For a blonde."

Alan chuckled. "True. But one, she doesn't hold a candle to you; and two, Charlie never brought her home – except for dinner, when she was here a few years ago. He was with her in England. That doesn't count. The International Trade Law or something – I'm sure Robin could tell you."

Amita smiled at the pond. "I like Robin. Do you think she and Don will stick it out, this time?"

Alan nodded. "I think so. I certainly _hope_ so – none of us are getting any younger. A man should at least _start_ being a grandfather when he can still pick up the baby."

The smile fell from Amita's face. "You want that very badly, don't you?"

Alan shrugged. "Well, yes, of course. I probably tease the boys too much about it. It's not like I want either of them to make a rash decision that will end up with another child living a divided life, with two separated parents. What I really want is for both of them to settle down; find that 'right' woman, and have her love and support for the rest of his life." He turned his head and winked at Amita. "Finally, both boys have their heads out of their asses on that one."

Amita sputtered out a half-laugh, half-choke. "I think you'd be a wonderful grandfather," she finally managed to say.

Alan dimpled, and beamed. "Thank-you. So do I." He studied Amita for a moment and grew serious. "Please don't feel that I'm pressuring you, dear. I know you and Charlie are still in the…'data-gathering' stage." She blushed and looked away, and he continued. "Although frankly, when he made you the pancake dinner, I think he was staking his claim. Charlie's a little…anal, sometimes. Or maybe it's just fear. I think he's more than ready for you to move in." Amita didn't respond to that, and after a moment or two of silence Alan made an offer. "I know young people need their space – especially in the beginning. If it's me, please don't let that stop you. I'm still looking at condos."

Amita whipped her head back around, and black hair nearly slapped Alan in the face. Her eyes were wide, her face distressed. "Oh, Alan, no! Please, it's not that, really. I know Charlie sometimes teases you about it, but it means a lot to him to have you here." She seemed to hesitate, biting her lip. "He told me," she said, finally deciding to go on, "that you worked very hard to pay for his tutors when he was growing up. He said you sometimes took private consulting jobs, and worked nights and weekends. He…didn't always feel very close to you, when he was young – he just didn't see you all that much. Then he left for Princeton so early. I think he really missed having a traditional family life, and he's loving the opportunity to enjoy it now." She blushed again and looked quickly away. "That's just what I think," she mumbled, letting her voice drift on the afternoon breeze.

Alan felt tears press at the back of his eyes. "Well. Well." Could what she observed be true? On some level, was Charlie still trying to have some of what he missed, all those years ago? And had one of the things he had missed been his father? "Well," Alan said again after clearing his throat. "I don't _have_ to move. I just thought you should know it's an option."

Amita silently studied her knees for so long, Alan started racking his brain to figure out how he had offended her. Just as he was about to ask, she turned her whole body sideways on the bench so that she was fully facing him. She looked so serious it frightened Alan a little. "What is it, dear?" he asked, concerned, reaching for her hand.

She accepted his hand, and sandwiched it between her own. "By all rights, Charlie should know this first – but it's already too late for that, and nothing seems to be going the way I always dreamed it would, anyway…maybe next time."

Alan frowned, confused. "What?"

Amita smiled at him then, brilliantly and completely. "I'd like you to stay at the house," she announced. "What grandchild doesn't want his grandfather at his beck-and-call all day?"

Alan responded to her smile, grinning himself. "Of course if you and Charlie decide to have children, I'll help myself – I mean, help you out – all I can."

Amita shook her head. "I'm not sure you understand," she said. "There was no rational thought involved, but his sperm and my egg made the decision already."

It took Alan 2.4 seconds to compute that tidbit of information. Then he was off the bench, dancing around it like a man half his age, shouting and laughing and stooping to hug Amita. He raced to the edge of the koi pond, skidded to a halt and pivoted so quickly he nearly tipped over and swam with the fishes. "My God," he exclaimed, gathering his feet underneath him again and starting back toward the bench. "You mustn't sit out in this weather. Come in the house, and I'll heat up some nice stew. Would you like a nap, first? What can I get you?"

Amita stood from the bench and found herself immediately wrapped in Alan's loving embrace. Her arms flopped at her side for a moment, then lifted and began to pat Alan on the back. "Alan, calm down," she advised. "You're going to kill yourself before…whenever…"

Alan pulled back and smiled broadly, not even attempting to hide the tears in his eyes. "Not a chance," he assured her. "I've been working out."

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Charlie regained consciousness – such as it was – almost immediately, when his water broke. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why he was on the floor, or why his chest and pajama bottoms were all wet. His limbs flailed, arms and legs akimbo. If it wasn't for the total lack of coordinated movement, Charlie would have thought he was swimming. As it was, faced with the evidence, he assumed that he had wet the bed, and fallen out of it as well. He groaned, unhappy and guilty, and tried to figure out what to do next.

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Ian Edgarton had started on the third floor, in Charlie's old room. The floor was empty now, offering only hazmat workers – but Ian was a detective. On the white board in Charlie's former room, he found the name of the RN on duty that morning. He took out his cell, cut through the red tape of administration by calling Havercamp directly, and at length was informed that the nurse, now into overtime, was still assisting with the evacuation and was assigned to the first floor main entrance. She was double-checking every patient's identification bracelet before he or she was loaded into waiting transport. " 'Bout time," Edgarton mumbled before thanking Havercamp and disconnecting. After a final search of Charlie's room, Ian hit the stairs.

He found Nurse O.K. Betah exactly where he had been told he would. The woman took a quick break, giving him her full attention and cooperation. "I'm so sorry this happened," she confided. "It would be terrible with anyone, but Dr. Eppes is such a nice man. I feel especially bad about this."

"Did you move him anywhere yourself?" Ian asked.

She shook her head. "No. Several aides, orderlies – even some officers from LAPD -- were helping out. It was a madhouse, and all I could do to handle the paperwork." She had the courtesy to flush with embarrassment. "_More_ than I could handle, apparently."

"Do you have a record of who moved him?"

She nodded, with hesitation. "I turned everything in to administration when the floor was emptied – and so did every other nurse on every other wing of this hospital. It will take days to wade through all of that and find what you want." Edgarton frowned and she hurried on. "But I remember. Dr. Eppes was in 314 – I sent two orderlies to transport 312 and 314. Dr. Eppes should have come down here, to a private ambulance, and 312 – who ended up here – should have gone downstairs, to the basement exit."

Ian ruminated. "The guy who accidently went to county lock-up; do you know where he was?"

She nodded. "Mr. Simmons. I checked that out as soon as I heard about the mix-up, and he was down in the basement as well. There must have been another mistake made there."

"What's in the basement?" Edgarton asked, half turned to head toward the stairwell again.

"It used to be the ER," Betah answered. "We remodeled about five years ago, and now it's mostly used by the School of Nursing. Their classrooms, labs and administrative offices are down there." Ian nodded and started to leave, and she called after him. "You won't find anything – it's empty now, except for the hazmat team."

"And one tracker," Ian muttered, all-but ignoring her. Without turning around, he dismissed her with a wave of his hand over his head, just before he opened the door to the stairwell.

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He had managed to get to his hands-and-knees. Even that much altitude further stressed his shallow breathing, so it didn't take many failed attempts at standing for Charlie to give up and start crawling through the puddle. The liquid smelled, and it was oddly sticky, and Charlie was disgusted with himself. He shivered as it soaked through his pajama bottoms, wetting his lower legs and feet as he moved through it, but it was his own fault for peeing in the first place, so he wrinkled his nose and continued to crawl without complaint.

He wasn't even sure where he was going. All he knew was that it was claustrophobic lying on the floor in-between the beds, and there was open space just ahead. It couldn't be more than six or eight feet, but Charlie began to wonder if he would ever reach the Promised Land. Even crawling, he had no energy, and was covering only a few inches at a time.

Charlie let himself examine the room with his peripheral vision, too tired to move his head. _I don't know where I am_, he thought, and crawled another inch. _Why am I here alone?_ he wondered as he rested before the next inch. _I want my daddy_, he mused sadly, and a tear dropped between his shifting hands. _Where is Don?_ he questioned, as, driven by a force outside of himself, he moved forward another inch. _I want my brother_, he sniffed, and another tear dropped onto the floor.

Charlie finally cleared the beds and reached the center of the room. Carefully, he lowered himself onto his side, avoiding the pencil that was sticking out of his chest, for some reason. He glanced down at the ugly parasite, and the inflamed and puckered skin surrounding it. _Amita won't like that_, he decided, closing his eyes and trying to remember how to breathe. _I'm broken now_, he concluded, drifting off to sleep. _Maybe that's why they don't want me anymore…._

And then he was asleep, safe from reality once more.

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Ian lifted a hand in greeting whenever he ran into a member of the hazmat team. They were congregated toward one end of the basement, lifting samples from the offices and classrooms. Occasionally, one would shuffle down the hall to deliver specimens to the headquarters hazmat had set-up on the second floor.

Edgarton strolled around what had been the triage area and receptionist's desk in the old ER. He approached the exit, showed his badge to the security guard there and waited until the man unlocked the door for him. The basement opened into the hospital's parking garage, which was well-lit and empty, now that this exit had been shut down. Ian stepped through the door, informing the guard that he would knock when he wanted back in.

He roamed a few feet into the eerily quiet concrete structure. He passed a stairwell that led pedestrians to another level, paused and squinted upstairs for a moment before moving past an empty bicycle rack. He checked around a vertical support pillar, thick and cylindrical, and found only trash cans for his trouble. In all, he only ventured about 20 feet from the door before he made an announcement that echoed in the cavernous garage: "Charlie's not here," he noted, daring the building to contradict him. No response was forthcoming, so Ian turned and started walking back to the door. "I'd smell him if he was here," he chuckled to himself.

Edgarton rapped smartly on the door and the security guard readmitted him to the old ER. Ian nodded his thanks and made his way down the corridor. He passed the stairwell, and the elevator. Several feet later, he passed a bathroom. He paused a few steps past the men's room and lifted his chin in the air as if to test the wind. Then he backtracked to the restroom and pushed through the door.

He felt around the door frame, found a light switch and clicked on the fluorescent lights. "Charlie?" he called. He paused again, half-expecting to hear something. Then he strode through the room banging open each of the three stall doors to peer inside.

Nothing.

"_Hmphf,"_ remarked Edgarton. Turning out the lights again, he opened the door and went back into the main corridor of the basement. He was alone now, the hazmat team behind him, and his footsteps echoed loudly in the hall. About 12 feet past the restroom, he came to a fork in the road and was faced with a choice: Turn left, or turn right.

Ian looked over his shoulder to make sure no-one was watching him, and then did what he always did when he found himself in this situation. With no scent or footprints to follow, he took his lucky quarter from the front pocket of his jeans and flipped it into the air. Always, heads meant left, and tails meant right.

It was a 1995 'Liberty' coin, a quarter dating from a time when money was money, and not some sort of geography lesson. When he caught the silver with his dominant right hand and slammed it on the back of his left, he lifted his hand to reveal a magestic eagle, its wings unfurled. "Okay, Eppsie," Edgarton murmured, and he turned right.

He continued down the vacant hallway, passing a closed door on the left marked 'Storage'. Ian stopped to rattle the door knob, finding it locked. Leaning over to look more closely at the lock, he also discovered that it was as old-fashioned as his quarter. He could gain entrance with a credit card, if he had to. Straightening, he decided to save that for the return trip. He didn't smell Charlie behind Door #2, either.

He crossed the hallway to the Student Nursing Instructional Lab, and started to put his hand on the glass door, leaning in to peer into the room. This door was _not_ locked, however, and to his surprise was motion-controlled. The glass panel began to retract into the wall.

Ian stepped inside, and again tilted his chin into the air, narrowing his eyes. "Eppes," he breathed. He was standing beside the miniature 'nurses' station' that was just inside the door. With one long stride he was past it – and standing directly over Charlie, who was lying on the floor in a fetal position staring up at him, his eyes bright with fever, dark with pain and terror and confusion.

Ian dropped to his knees and reached for his cell phone in one motion. "Hey, Charlie," he greeted.

The slightest hint of relief flashed in Charlie's eyes. "I lost…my bed," he whispered breathlessly and confidentially, "but we have...to be careful. There…are aliens afoot."

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_**A/N: Oh, no! Charlie is drowning in his own…stuff (yeech)…and still avoiding the aliens! Not only that, he thinks everybody left him there intentionally! Now that Larry, Millie and Alan know that Amita is pregnant, who is next? Perhaps she should just take an ad out in the paper and get it over with. Meanwhile, what the hell is Don up to?**_


	24. Plan B

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: per diem re all Numb3rs characters and characterizations. The "main hospital" featured in this fanFICTION is a work of FICTION and does not really exist in any location other than my mind. Ditto the "downtown Y", as well as whatever else I decide to make up.**

_**A/N: The Cat refers those still reading to any other chapter.**_

**My Name is FraidyCat, and I'll be your hostess this evening. Today's special…**

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**Chapter Twenty-Four: **_**Plan B**_

Sarah clutched the cell phone tightly and whispered angrily at Aaron. "Where the hell have you been? I thought you were bringing me the stuff this afternoon!"

Aaron had parked his butt on the bench of the bus stop. He still had to walk over half-a-mile to get back to the loft and the rest of Planet Green, but he wanted to make this call first. Still, he found himself stalling. "Did your guy call?"

"Yesss," Sarah hissed dangerously. "It went just like we planned. I gave him Cracker and Dawn, and convinced him to meet me at 8 in the morning." She chuckled humorlessly. "I told him _he_ was the only pig I trusted, and I wanted _him_ to bring me in – but he had to give me one last night with my lover, first. Not just a murderer – an idiot, as well."

"You told him the alley, right?" Aaron asked after a moment of silence. "The one we scoped this morning, between the Red Light and the condemned apartment building?"

"Of course I did," answered Sarah impatiently. "_I'm_ not the one who didn't follow through on the plan. Are you bringing it to me in the morning? We should probably set up behind the dumpsters by 4 a.m. at the latest; we want to be ready to get the drop on him if he shows up early – or with other pigs."

Aaron sighed, and closed his eyes. They popped back open as he sighed again. "Sarah, I think maybe you'd better abort."

She couldn't believe her ears. Oblivious to the curious looks she was attracting from others in the rail station, Sarah started screaming into the phone. "What?! Are you crazy?! You know how long I've waited for this, we agreed…."

Aaron raised his own voice and cut her off. "I couldn't get it, Sarah! By the time I got to the house, there were pigs in the sty!" His tone became wheedling. "That's why I didn't bring it to you. Just abort; do you have enough money to hole up somewhere for the night? After Cracker and Dawn get busted, I can take over the coalition just like we planned, and I'll come and get you. We'll put Planet Green back on the right path, together. Just like we said, Baby."

Sarah was up now, pacing the area near the public restrooms, and seething. "Don't 'baby' me," she spat.

Aaron tried again. "We'll create another opportunity, to make sure he pays. We won't let him get away with it, Sarah."

_Damn straight_, she thought, not responding to him verbally.

Aaron waited a moment, and then went on, tentatively. "I have to get back – Cracker thinks I'm bringing the product to him, as well. When he hears the pigs have already discovered the house, he'll lock us down tonight. I won't be able to get away – probably not until we all leave in the morning. I'll keep this phone with me; if you call me at 3 tomorrow and tell me where you are, I'll come for you. I should have a vehicle by then. Patty and Marcus might be with me, but they'll fall into line when they hear about Cracker and Dawn getting busted."

Sarah still couldn't bring herself to speak, and emitted a grunt instead.

"We'll make him pay," Aaron repeated, trying to soothe her. "I promise. This is just a postponement." Sarah grunted again, and Aaron was tempted to roll his eyes. "I've got to go," he reiterated. "Cracker is expecting me. 3 o'clock tomorrow."

"Fine," she finally managed, flipping the phone closed and heading for the bank of lockers on the east wall. She had 17 dollars left – 15 after she paid to retrieve her duffle from the lockers. Another night at the Red Light would be 20, so that was not an option. She could go to a shelter, but they would search her duffle there, and her back-up – the black-handled Buck® knife whose 6-inch blade she intended to bury in Ian Edgarton's gut at 8 in the morning – was inside.

She decided to backtrack a few blocks, to where she had seen a Catholic church. She would light a candle for Joe before she found a women's restroom or an abandoned confessional to hide in for a while.

She only needed a few hours. By 3 a.m., she would be back on a bus bound for East L.A., and the alley that separated the men from the boys. By the time she was finished with Ian Edgarton, he wouldn't be either one.

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Colby glanced up as Don entered the conference room and stopped to talk to David and Ian. Eppes looked beyond exhausted, and he was favoring his infected arm. Granger, who had been leaning over the surface of the conference-room table studying a set of blueprints, made a decision and straightened. He sauntered slowly across the room, letting loose an exaggerated yawn. "Don, we've got to be at the Y by 5 in the morning – less than twelve hours from now. There's not much more we can do tonight, anyway – the tech guys are setting everything up. What d'ya say we call it a day?"

Don glanced at him and raised his good arm to massage the back of his neck. "Yeah, I guess…" he agreed, reluctantly.

Colby went in for the kill. "Dude. You sent me home last night because you wanted me at the top of my game today. Something tells me that's gonna be even more important – for all of us – tomorrow."

Don sighed and dropped his hand to his side. "Agreed," he responded. "It's just when I think of what they were going to do to those kids…I want everything perfect, ya know?"

Ian reached up to squeeze Don's shoulder quickly. "Look, I can hang here for a while, Eppes. Keep an eye on things – my meet-and-greet with Sarah isn't until 8. Besides," he finished, removing his hand and shoving it in the front pocket of his jeans, "I'm sure you want to get to the hospital."

Don frowned. "Not like I can even _see_ Charlie, but yeah…I'm sure my Dad is sitting in the waiting room driving everybody crazy by now." His expression softened and he looked at Ian gratefully. "Did I thank you for finding him?"

Edgarton laughed. "Couple of dozen times, Eppes." He tossed his chin toward the door and addressed his next words to Colby. "Go on – get him outta here."

Colby snickered and started to move, but Don stubbornly held his ground, as well as Ian's attention. "You've got your back-up set, right?"

David answered for Edgarton. "I'm on it, Don. I'll stick around for a while myself, and we can go over the plan a couple of more times if it will make you feel better. I'll even give Ian a ride to his hotel – at a decent hour."

Don grinned. "Okay, okay." He turned toward the door. "Let's go, Granger." He glanced back over his shoulder when they reached the hall outside the room. "Edgarton!", he called. "Sinclair!" The two agents lifted their heads and Don regarded them solemnly. "Watch each other's backs out there," he advised seriously. "Consider it an order."

Ian nodded. "This time tomorrow, Eppes, I'll be playing chess with Charlie." Then his face split into a grin. " 'Course, _you'll_ still be stuck out in the waiting room, but whatever, dude."

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Alan paced from one side of the small waiting area to the other. At the wall, he turned around and started back, only to stop midway and peer down at Amita. "Are you sure this is a good idea? It might not be good for your…condition."

Amita smiled up at him. "I'll be fine, Alan. If it makes you feel better, we'll tell the doctor when she gets back that I'm pregnant."

Alan nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes, that would make me feel better." He looked anxiously toward the door. "Of course, I wish that someone could go in to see him. I can't, Larry can't, Colby can't…even Don has a staph infection, now, and _he_ can't."

"The faculty dinner will be over by eight," offered Amita helpfully. "Millie will be here as soon as she can. But I'm sure the doctor will let me in – Charlie's already had plenty of opportunities to infect me, and he hasn't yet."

Alan had done enough research and asked enough questions to know by now exactly how _Brucella_ was transmitted between humans, and he blushed furiously. "Right," he choked, changing the subject as quickly as he could. "I'm just so thankful that this Edgarton fellow found him so quickly, and that Dr. Havercamp arranged for a medflight here to UCLA. Charlie has some very influential friends, thank God."

Amita agreed and started to say so, but stood quickly at the sound of footsteps approaching. Alan turned in time to see Don and Colby enter the small waiting room. He smiled widely and moved to take his eldest in his arms. "Don! I wasn't sure I'd see you tonight!" He pulled back, and started looking toward Don's arms. "Let me see this terrible wound of yours…"

Don pulled his arms back, embarrassed. "It's no big deal, Dad. Just a little sore – that's why I rode with Col. How's Charlie?"

Alan glanced at Colby, smiled, and suddenly reached out to envelop him in a hug as well. "How are you feeling, son?" he asked. "Still no problems with the medication?"

Now Colby was as embarrassed as Don. "I'm good," he confirmed, when Alan finally let go of him. Desperate to deflect attention, he looked at Amita over Alan's shoulder. "Hey, Amita."

She dimpled and returned the greeting. "Charlie got help just in time," she shared. "His oxygen saturation was very low, which is why he got so confused, and lost, and let himself be shuffled around. It started to improve as soon as they got him back on O2."

Don nodded as the group began to move back toward the chairs. "Good. What about his tube?"

Alan took over the report. "The doctor was here about an hour ago – lovely young woman. She said that the existing tube was not large enough to adequately drain Charlie's pericardium." He frowned. "Also, the incision has become infected."

Colby frown with him. "So what're they gonna do?"

Alan smiled, albeit somewhat tremulously. "There was an emergency procedure to clean up and enlarge the incision, and a larger gauge tube was inserted. He's back on an IV, and a third antibiotic has been added; the doctor seemed to think he would show fairly rapid improvement."

Don sighed, and a weight he didn't even know was there lifted from his shoulders, leaving him somewhat light-headed. "I know you can't see him yet, Dad – Amita, have they let you?"

She shook her head. "Dr. Staab asked us to let him spend some time in recovery, and then get settled into a room, first." She caught sight of a familiar white lab coat approaching the door, and started to move toward it. "Oh! Here she comes, now!"

All three men, still standing, turned toward the door again. Alan smiled broadly at the short redhead who entered. "Dr. Staab; these are my other boys, Don and Colby."

The afore-mentioned Granger felt his knees wobble and dropped hard into the plastic chair behind him. "Hey," he said feebly, waving a hand toward the physician.

Don glanced at Colby, suppressed a grin and looked back at the doctor. "How's my brother?"

"Nice to meet you both," answered the doctor – somewhat tiredly, Don thought. "Charlie is settled in a room, now – I'm sorry, with the influx of patients, we only had a semi-private available. He needs his rest, so I'm going to have to insist that only one of you visit, and that you keep it short. He'll be up for more tomorrow." She raised her eyebrows in surprise when all four fo the individuals before her started laughing.

Alan was the first to pull himself together. "Excuse us, Dr. – we're all a little rummy." He pointed to himself: "Influenza." He touched Don's shirt sleeve: "Staph." He leaned over a little and pointed at Colby: "_Brucella_." Finally, he winked at Amita. "I'm afraid only one of us is _allowed_ to see him – for the next several days, at least."

The doctor allowed herself an uncertain smile, then pulled rank. "I understand your need to be as near to your son as you can, but I hope you'll understand that the entire city is experiencing a health crisis right now. I'm going to have to insist that you all wear masks when you're in the hospital. I'll send the nurse down with some."

She started to turn to leave, but Amita rushed forward and stopped her at the door. "Dr. Staab, wait, please." She glanced nervously at Alan over her shoulder, then turned her attention back to the doctor and lowered her voice. "I just have one question."

Colby had found his feet again. Alan and the boys were muttering about breathing masks when Amita's sudden wail startled them all into silence. "Oh, no!" the young woman cried. "Please, don't say that!"

"I'm very sorry," the doctor answered softly, reaching out to touch Amita gently on the arm, "but I really feel that it's best to err on the side of caution." She looked once more at the men standing near the chairs. "I'll send someone with those masks," she promised again before she turned and started back down the hospital corridor.

Amita was crying when she turned away from the door. Alan started moving toward her, and she began to move toward him, melting into his arms when they met a few feet in front of Don and Colby. "Dear God," whispered Alan fearfully. "Is it Charlie? Is something wrong?"

Amita sobbed into his shoulder and shook her miserable head. "N…no," she stuttered, her voice still clearly audible in the quiet room. "Sh..she said I sh…shouldn't ex…ex…expose the baby to active _B…B…Brucella_! I can't s…see him either!"

This time, Don lost his knees and dropped heavily. Unfortuately, he wasn't as close to the chairs as Colby had been, and he almost hit the floor before Granger managed to grab his good arm and manhandle him backwards into a seat. "Dude," huffed Colby as he finally seated Don and started to back off, "lay off the pizza…"

Don just lifted confused and shocked eyes to meet the junior agent's. "Did she just say 'baby'?" he whispered, as if it was some kind of secret.

Colby, still leaning over Don, grinned and slapped him on the knee before crashing into the chair next to him with a groan. "I think so, Uncle Don."

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_**Oh, no! Sarah is still planning to off Ian, who will drag an unsuspecting David with him! How will the Team stop Cracker and Dawn? Colby and Don have joined the list of people who know that Amita is pregnant, and Millie and David are the only two people still allowed to visit Charlie! Does the angst ever end??**_


	25. Idiots

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: remains in effect**

**My Name is FraidyCat, and I'm a whump-a-holic.**

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**Chapter Twenty-Five: **_**Idiots**_

Charlie was having a very bad week.

He had been infected with massive quantities of the bioterroristic bacteria _Brucella_. His immune system had been further compromised by a probable simultaneous bout of influenza. Complications arose -- as they often did in Charlie's life -- and he ended up with a tube in his chest. Yet more complications arose when the incision created for that tube became infected with both a secondary exposure to _Brucella_ and a slight case of the staph that had run rampant through the hospital when its disinfectant turned out to be nothing more than poisoned water. The hospital had been shut down and evacuated -- and Charlie had been lost not once, but twice, in the ensuing shuffle. He continued to fight pericarditis, and was growing weary of the elephant seated upon his chest. To add insult to all of his injuries, Charlie 's girlfriend had been out of town during most of this. Not only that, his father and his brother were ignoring him. Worse yet, the only visitor that he could see in his room when he awoke -- was his boss. Not even Larry cared about him anymore.

He shifted painfully in the bed and sniffed, feeling sorrier for himself than he ever remembered feeling before. At the movement and sound, Millie glanced up. She was sitting just a few feet from his bed, around which a privacy curtain was pulled. She stuck a finger in her book as a place holder and smiled. "You're looking..." _Well, frankly, like road kill_, she thought, and rephrased her statement. "You should probably get some more sleep. Visiting hours are almost over anyway." Charlie blinked owlishly a few times and regarded Millie with dark chocolate eyes that were suspiciously moist. He cleared his throat to speak and she sprang to her feet. She dropped the book in the chair she had just vacated and reached for the cup of ice on his bedside table. She scooped a few chips into the plastic spoon and smiled brightly as she offered the ice to Charlie. "Here. This will help."

Charlie opened his mouth like a baby bird, and Millie deposited the ice. He closed his eyes in appreciation and sucked greedily, savoring the trickle of water down his parched throat. He opened his eyes again when Millie asked him if he would like more, and shook his head slightly while he contemplated her sadly. "Are they all mad at me?" he whispered.

Millie's smile faltered. She placed the cup back on the nightstand. "What?" she asked, and that was just the first of the interrogative words she directed his way. "Who? Why?"

Charlie sighed a little and started to lift a hand toward the drainage bag at his chest, but she batted it away as easily as she would a fly. "Everybody," he responded plaintively. "I'm sorry." He let his eyes roam around his cubicle. "Is this all my fault? They're mad at me."

Millie's brow furrowed for a moment and then she interpreted his despair. She raised an eyebrow. "My, my," she started, "aren't you the self-absorbed one? Gonna have to get over _that_." Charlie's eyes immediately filled with tears and she rolled her own, reaching over the bed rail to pat him awkwardly on the arm. "Nobody's angry, Charlie – don't be an idiot. Everybody was here for hours, but your visitors are...restricted...for a few more days. Your father has had the flu; Colby and Larry are carrying _Brucella_; Don developed a slight staph infection himself, but he'll probably be the first allowed to see you -- your doctors just want to make sure the infection is no longer...infectious...before they give him the green light. Alan just took everyone back to the Craftsman about half-an-hour ago. They all send their love, and they'll be calling tomorrow when it's easier for you to handle the phone."

Charlie tried to process everything in that speech, but his tired mind wasn't making it easy. "Is 'Mita sick, too?" he finally asked.

Millie had prepared for that question, so she wasn't as caught off-guard as she might have been. "She wasn't feeling well while she and Larry were in Palomar," she answered brusquely, "but she seems to be fine, now. It's probably a precaution, like with Alan -- he feels fine now, too, but he has to wait until his white blood cell count is normal before they let him in." Before Charlie had a chance to think about that any further, she indicated the privacy curtain and lowered her voice a little. "The hospital is pretty crowded, so they couldn't give you a private room; but I know you don't like enclosed places. Would you like me to open this up a little before I go?"

Charlie might not have been entirely sure yet why Millie was his only visitor, but the thought of her disappearing so soon actually made him gasp. "Do you have to go already?" he pleaded, wincing in the painful aftermath of his gasp.

Dr. Finch smiled gently and couldn't help herself -- she reached out to smooth his errant curls. Then, all-business once more, she picked up her book and settled back into the chair. "I'll just sit here until you fall asleep," she offered. "Everything will look better in the morning. Okay?"

Charlie nodded miserably. "Okay," he whispered, and closed his eyes.

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Don lay on his side in his childhood bedroom, facing away from the door. His injured forearm rested largely on the pillow, which also cradled the cell phone close to his ear. Amita was across the hall sleeping in Charlie's bed, his dad was down in his room, and Colby was set-up in the solarium. Don murmured quietly, so as not to wake anyone. "It's not fair," he complained. "You and I have been talking about this for months. Now it's going to look like we're just playing catch-up."

Robin laughed at his petulant tone. "Don, nobody is going to think that. Who cares if they do, anyway?"

Don was not in the mood to be easily appeased. "That's easy for you to say. I've been trying to catch Charlie my whole life -- the only thing that was 'all mine' was baseball -- and for a while, the Bureau -- but now he's in the middle of that, too."

She let careful reproach enter her voice. "I think he might have a different view of who's been chasing who, Don. As far as the Bureau, is he an univited guest there?"

"Not always," he sulked.

Robin sighed. "You're going to have to give this sort of thing up if I agree to have your child. I can only deal with one baby at a time."

In spite of himself, Don laughed. "I just can't believe he didn't even tell me," he confided, and she detected the hurt behind his words.

"I don't think he knew," she comforted, and immediately bit her tongue.

Too late. Don was suspicous. "What does that mean?"

Robin was used to thinking fast on her feet -- or in this case, on her butt, ensconced on her sister's couch. "Didn't you say Amita wasn't feeling well at Palomar, and that both she and Larry stopped at Oceanside for blood tests? I guess I just assumed she just found out."

Don wavered. "Maybe...but would they automatically run a pregnancy test if they were looking for _Brucella_?"

"Maybe she asked for one?" Robin guessed.

"_Hmmpf_," Don grunted, not quite ready to make a commitment but sorely tempted to believe his brother would have told him something like this. "Maybe…"

Robin decided it was time to turn the tables. "Don, have _you_ told _him_ how seriously we've been discussing having children? Asked for his opinion, advice?"

Don became slightly defensive. "Look, he'd be the first person I told, when it actually happened. Before Dad, even. Maybe."

Robin _tsked_. "That's not what I asked. He's an adult now, Don, not just your little brother. It would mean a lot to him if you respected his opinion."

Don shut his eyes in the dark room. "Exactly how did I end up the one in trouble, here?"

She gentled her tone. "You're not in trouble, Don. I'm just suggesting you give Charlie some credit. I'm sure you would be the first person he'd want to talk to, as well. Until you know differently, put your hurt feelings on hold."

Don smiled into the cell. "I hate it when you're right."

"You should be used to it by now," she teased.

"I miss you," Don shared impulsively. "When you get back, I think it's time to stop talking, and get busy." She laughed lightly and he continued before she could protest. "And I'm not just saying that because I'm trying to catch up to Charlie. I want to marry you, Robin, and there's no one I'd rather have as my wife, or as the mother to my Dad's favorite grandchildren."

There was a moment of silence before she answered sadly. "Ah, Don, you almost had me. If only you had mentioned 'love' somewhere in all of that."

Terrified, he sprang up to perch on the edge of the bed. "Of course I love you. I said that already, didn't I?" He began to sound a little frantic. "Pretend this never happened, Baby, I'm exhausted and I've got to be in the field in five hours. Oh, God, I'm such an idiot!"

Robin could barely contain her giggle. "Agent Eppes, I've been recording this entire conversation. You have made an offer and I'm afraid that I simply cannot pretend it never happened."

Don grinned slowly and lowered his voice. "I should probably at least be punished for my boorish behavior."

Robin agreed. "You will be severely reprimanded, Agent. It may take me 30 or 40 years to thoroughly even the score."

Don fell back onto the bed, unbelievably and indescribably happy, for a man who would be facing possible death in just a few hours. "What the hell," he growled, "let's go for 50."

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Amita was exhausted, but she couldn't sleep.

She had never slept in Charlie's bed without Charlie before. In truth, it had taken her by surprise when Alan had turned to her with a quiet smile and offered to walk her up the stairs -- she assumed she would be staying in the small guest room downstairs. The gesture at once touched her, and left her discombobulated.

She had known for a little over 24 hours that she was pregnant. Impending motherhood was still a surrealistic reality to her, complicated by Charlie's serious illness and the continued threats of Planet Green. She had no idea how she was going to tell Charlie about this, or even when. From their recent conversation on the phone, she hoped he would take the news well, but it was anybody's guess. Once he was better, and he knew about the pregnancy, what then? True, he had already asked her to consider moving in with him. Would the offer be reneged, or would he put extra pressure on her? She hadn't been ready to move in before the baby; did the biological difference now mean that she was?

She was tempted to call Robin again, but it just as late in Seattle as it was here. She knew that Alan would get up early to fix Don and Colby a nice breakfast before they left on some mysterious mission that was somehow associated with Planet Green. She might as well get up with the rest of them, but she wondered if calling Robin at 6 in the morning would be any kinder than calling her at midnight.

She sighed, and flopped over onto her side. She grabbed Charlie's empty pillow and hugged it to her, spooning it as she had him the times they had slept in this bed together. She almost started crying when she buried her nose in the fabric of the pillowcase and inhaled the scent of him. She longed to have one leg thrown over his, a hand resting on his bare hip and another buried in his curls.

She had been an idiot, not to move in the moment he asked her. An idiot who very much hoped that he would ask again.

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Colby lay on the hide-a-bed in the solarium and tried to objectively observe the twinkling stars through the skylight. Before transforming the couch into a bed, he had stood for awhile and looked through the telescope that either Charlie, or Larry – probably both – had set up in a corner. The night sky really was beautiful, even though the light pollution of the city encroached on the view. Still, the position of the solarium and the power of the scope made this the next-best thing to hiking up into the Sierras and camping out for a few days and nights.

Colby sighed, realizing that it had been too long since he had done just that. Maybe when this Planet Green crisis was over, Don was back in tip-top shape and Charlie was wrapped around Amita like he should be…maybe he could get away for a weekend.

He yawned, then smiled, considering the possibilities. If they weren't on-call, maybe Dave would even go with him. He shook his head, still finding it difficult to believe that after the Chinese incident, he had gotten his best friend back. For a while there, he had been worried that David would never speak to him again – and he didn't really blame him.

It was ironic, really. He had gotten involved in the whole thing because the Army had become his family. His sister was much older; she was married and lived across the country before Colby was seven. His parents were older than all of his friends' parents, and they had both passed away when Colby was still in high school. After a year in the foster care system, he had been more than happy to join up, and more than ready to find there the family he was missing.

He thought of Alan and blinked rapidly. Somehow, when he wasn't paying attention, he had found a family on the outside. He was sure he had blown it; he knew he had hurt them – but Alan called him 'son', and introduced him as one of his 'boys'. Colby had thought that family was a sense of belonging, of camaraderie. Now he was discovering that it was also forgiveness, and that love could be unconditional.

He flopped over onto his side, wiping his snotty nose in the dark. _Don't be an idiot_, he thought. _You're gonna keep yourself up all night, and Dad will give you hell for the circles under your eyes in the morning._ Dad. The word, and the image it conjured, made him smile. Tomorrow someone crazy was going to try to blow him to Kingdom Come. Now, this moment, he was safe, and warm, and surrounded by his family.

Colby Granger fell asleep a happy man.

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Alan lay on his back in the darkness and whispered to his dead wife.

"_For a born idiot, Margaret,"_ he began, _"I ended up a very lucky man."_ She didn't disagree with him, but still he enumerated for her. _"The most beautiful, intelligent, funny, incredible woman in the world fell in love with me. She gave me two brilliant boys with hearts even more impressive than their IQs. They both took their time, but finally both of them are involved with beautiful, intelligent women of their own – and I will finally be a grandfather."_ He paused for a moment, blinking back tears. _"My only regret is that you will not be with me to enjoy that."_

He sighed, then smiled into the darkness. _"The family is growing, dear. Don's team members are so much more than coworkers. These are the people I trust with my son's life, every day. A father can't do that without truly getting to know and appreciate that team on an individual basis – at least, this father can't. David and Colby are part of this family – just like Megan, bless her heart, and Larry._ _Of course, Robin and Amita are our daughters, now. So much family, Margaret. So much."_

He thought suddenly of Millie and felt himself blushing under the cover of darkness. _"She's just a good friend,"_ he defended, as if Margaret had accused him of something. _"She's an excellent friend, to all of us; I actually think you would like her."_

He listened for a moment to a voice that only he could hear and chuckled quietly. "_You're probably right, Margaret,"_ he agreed. _"I'm an idiot."_

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_**A/N: Oh, No! All this love at Casa Eppes can only mean that there is an idiot somewhere in the future…**_


	26. Is It Hot In Here, or Is It Just Me?

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: remains in effect**

**My Name is FraidyCat, and I'm a whump-a-holic.**

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**Chapter Twenty-Six: **_**Is It Hot in Here, or Is It Just Me?**_

The trio had actually taken the bus from the Wilshire Blvd. headquarters to the downtown Y. The entire operation was planned under the assumption that someone could be watching the building all day, and things had to look as normal as possible. Other personnel from both the F.B.I. and LAPD had been brought in under the cover of darkness, from the rear of the daycare center, and should be in position already. The daycare director had volunteered to make a public, front-door appearance around 7; she would be taken out the back a few hours later.

Between the director, the F.B.I. and LAPD, over 90 percent of the parents of currently-enrolled children had been contacted. It took some talking, but most of them had agreed to show up at their regular times, kiddies and backpacks in tow. Good-byes would be said, and the parents would leave alone. Don was sure it was the most difficult thing any of those parents would ever do, despite all the promises in the world. The children wouldn't even take off their little coats and sweaters, but rather would be chaperoned immediately out the back, through the covered breezeway that led to the Y-proper. Once there, they would continue to yet another exit, where vans waited to shuttle them to a safe location some 20 miles away; the parents would no-doubt be waiting for them when they arrived.

As for the Y itself, no signs were being posted, but when members entered they would be informed that there was a power outage, and the gym was closed until further notice. The personnel that had been snuck into the back of the daycare center had parked in the Y's parking lot, so that it wouldn't look empty to curious onlookers.

The two businesses on the other side of the daycare center – a coffee shop and a dog groomery – had been a little more difficult to manage. What Don wanted to do, of course, was completely evacuate at least two city blocks around the center. If he did that, though, he might as well hang a sign that said _'Welcome, Cracker and Dawn'_. He had to content himself with making sure the children were safe, keeping the Y as empty as possible, and having the city turn off all water access to the other two businesses. Hopefully, they would close themselves down when Don's contact at the city told them that it would be 8 o' clock that evening before the waterlines were repaired. It would be difficult to make coffee, or wash dogs, without water.

The bus stop was a block before the actual building, and the three hoofed it the rest of the way. Don nodded with satisfaction when he saw the huge backhoe digging up the playground, which was roped off and inaccessible. "Caution" and "Playground Closed" signs were strung up every few feet, the _piece de resistance_ being a large, laminated placard facing the sidewalk, complete with an 'artist's rendering' of the non-existent center remodel taking place. Unless it was raining – which didn't happen all that often in L.A. – a daycare center without children playing in the yard at some point would be another dead give-away.

He grimaced as the word 'dead' floated through his head, and opened the front door of the center for Agent Warner. "Thanks again for helping us out on this, Liz. It's not unusual to see an occasional man in childcare these days, but people still expect the majority of employees in a place like this to be women."

Liz entered the room and turned slightly to smile at him – letting her eyes wander briefly to Agent Granger. "I'm glad I could help," she maintained. "Not only does Planet Green need their heads handed to them, I've been getting bored at the ATF. When you guys found the grenades, it gave us a good reason to get involved in this, too. Since I've worked with you before, it made sense to send me."

Colby brought up the rear and stared at the tiny chairs grouped around a tiny table. "Are you sure adults work here?" he asked, and then interrupted himself. "Hey, Don – Liz tested clean, too. That's great, right?"

Don looked pleased and confused at the same time. "Of course," he responded, looking from Colby to Liz. "I guess I didn't realize that everybody at the ATF was being tested."

Liz was only half-following the conversation, eyeing the "Library Corner", which was obviously intended for children too young to read. "Oh, they didn't. Just me."

Don was preoccupied, and not fast enough to avoid pushing himself into quicksand. "You must have been to _Bernie's_, then? Because the only other way…." His mind suddenly caught up with his mouth and it occurred to him that Colby was as red as the toy fire engine parked in the corner. _Colby and Liz? What the hell?_ "Huh," he murmured, moving toward the back rooms to check on the status of the other personnel.

He shook his head, a tad surprised but very relieved to learn that it didn't bother him; he was both happy to be back with Robin, and honestly fond of both Colby and Liz. More power to them if they could find happiness with each other. He smiled genuinely. "Yeah, that's great, Liz. Which one of you wants to help prepare snack time?"

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Sarah pilfered somebody's old overcoat from a hook in the church's foyer. It was much too big for her, but she decided that it added to her disguise. With the 1970s polyester pantsuit and the coat, she probably looked homeless. If anybody saw her making a nest behind the dumpster, it would make perfect sense.

She was there by 3:30, rummaging by the light of the moon. She angled the dumpster slightly – not far enough to stick out into the alley, but a sufficient amount to create a pocket in which she could wait.

Four-and-a-half hours was a long time to wait, for most people – but not for Sarah. She had been waiting two years already.

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Aaron had been right the evening before: As soon as Cracker learned that the F.B.I. had breached the safe house and the cache of F1s, he put the coalition leadership into immediate lockdown.

He had sat cross-legged on the floor, one arm draped around Dawn's shoulders, and settled a grim gaze on Aaron. "We don't need the grenades – we'll do enough damage with the C4. But there has obviously been a leak."

Aaron had felt a bead of sweat dripping down his back and carefully schooled his face. In truth, the leak concerned him as well, even though he and Sarah had pulled a Judas. This leak was not coming from one of them – hell, they wanted some of the F1s themselves – but that probably wouldn't make Cracker feel better.

Aaron then decided it was a good time to remind everybody that he had almost been caught, himself. "I damn near walked right into the bust," he mused, shaking his head. "If they found out about the house, they could know about all our other drops, too." He held Cracker's gaze and didn't blink. "I think you're right; none of should go anywhere alone."

"It's probably Sarah," Dawn had grumbled. "She always was a bitch. I told Patty we should have killed her."

Cracker had frowned and looked at his woman. "I don't think she would turn herself in; you saw the _Times_ this morning – there are _Brucella_-linked fatalities and she's up for aggravated murder, the same as you and I."

"You didn't leave her with a lot of options," Marcus had noted. When Cracker turned to glare at him he held up his hands in peace. "I'm just saying – she had nowhere to go, and no money to get there. Plus, she was plenty pissed when she left. Maybe she made a deal."

Cracker had seemed to think about that a moment, and Aaron tried not to hold his breath. Finally Cracker had delivered his commandment. "It doesn't matter if it _was_ her," he informed them. "She was gone before we went after the C4 and picked our next target, so she can't tell them about that." He indicated the hovel they currently shared with a tilt of his chin. "She's never been here, so as long as we lay low tonight and watch each other's backs tomorrow, we'll be okay."

Patty, understandably nervous, had squeaked out a question. "Am I still supposed to get a van?"

Cracker had nodded, but glanced again at Aaron. "The guys will both go with you. Dawn and I will hit the daycare on our own. You three find something decent, switch out the plates – you can pick something up at a junkyard in the morning. Try to find a way to disguise the van. Dent it up real good, kick it – if you didn't have brains you wouldn't be part of leadership. You know where to go."

"MacArthur Park," Patty had supplied.

Cracker had nodded again. "Near the Westlake/MacArthur Park Metro station. Dawn and I can take the Red Line straight to you, and we'll be out of this sorry excuse of a city by four. Five, latest."

Aaron had murmured his agreement and kept his counsel, but he knew if he and Sarah had anything to say about it – Cracker and Dawn would be gone long before then.

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By the time David got to the third-floor fire escape in the Red Light Hotel, Ian was almost halfway down the alley. Sinclair swore under his breath and considered Eppes' morning lecture on teamwork a bust. No way had Edgarton allowed him five minutes to get situated before he started down the alley.

Granted, David was a minute or two behind schedule. He had intended to use the second floor fire escape, but the window leading to it had been painted shut – sometime in the 70s, by the looks of it. Still, he had taken the stairs two-at-a-time, not waiting for the ancient elevator, and reached the third floor well within the agreed-upon time frame. He shook his head as he cautiously raised the window, as quietly as he could. Ian was just too used to flying solo.

The window jammed halfway up, but there was a large enough opening for David to thread himself through, out onto the fire escape. He landed on the metal frame in a crouched position, staying well out of sight, silent as a cat.

He peered at Edgarton's back. The agent was just drawing even with a dumpster, and David could see that someone was leaning halfway inside, searching; by the looks of the oversized trench coat and the severely uncoordinated clothing – which culminated in a chartreuse knit cap, perched on a head of stringy hair -- a homeless dumpster diver. The hair was long, of some nondescript color not found in nature. From that and the slight build, David thought their diver was a woman. Edgarton stopped and glanced at her, then opened his mouth to speak.

David trained his Glock so that the bullet would tear into the middle of her back, and waited for an answer.

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Ian was pretty sure it had been five minutes.

He had made a big deal about looking at his watch when Sinclair got out of the parked car, but he just did it because it seemed to mean something to the other agent. Frankly, Ian was a little surprised he was even wearing a watch. In his line of work, he wasn't so much dependent on timing as he was on…well, on himself. He promised David five minutes, and then sat and twiddled his thumbs for at least that long.

When he figured that Sinclair had taken enough time to get situated on the second-floor fire escape overlooking the alley, Ian climbed out of the vehicle and stood for a moment on the sidewalk. He narrowed his eyes, looking first right, and then left. There was plenty of foot traffic at 7:30 in the morning. Since the gas crisis, more people were walking at least part of the way to work. There was no-one who remotely resembled Sarah, however.

The plan was for him to walk the alley once and then head back for the sidewalk, where he would wait for his Planet Green contact. When he entered the shadow-filled space between the hotel and the condemned apartment house, he walked slowly, giving his eyes time to adjust to the change in lighting. About halfway down the alley, on the side closest to the tenement, he spied a dumpster. Someone was half inside the thing, and he could hear the muttering from almost thirty feet away.

He let his eyes roam the rest of the alley, alert for the out-of-place, but kept returning his gaze to the dumpster. As he got closer, it was apparent that the diver was a female; probably homeless; almost certainly wacko. He forced himself to keep from looking up at the hotel's fire escapes – he didn't want to give Sinclair's position away to anyone who might be watching.

As he drew even with the woman in the dumpster, Ian stopped. He was facing her, but a safe distance away. "Sarah?" he asked.

The muttering didn't stop, nor did the woman lower herself to the ground. Her voice echoed from inside the dumpster. "Mine. Here first. Gitcher own, gitcher own. This'un's mine. Mine."

There was so much scratching against the side of the dumpster that Ian began to imagine that rats were running away from her. This was not a female in her right mind; probably just someone scavenging for breakfast. Besides, the hair was the wrong color. Ian wasn't even sure what color it was. "You can keep it," he assured the woman. "I'm just gonna keep looking for Sarah."

She pulled herself a little farther in, so that it looked like the dumpster was either claiming or regurgitating a body. Head-and-shoulders were completely inside now, and her feet banged into the side of the trash bin, a good 12 inches off the ground. "Git away. Git away, now. Mine. Mine."

Ian shook his head and continued down the alley. When he turned around at the end, he allowed himself a glance at the fire escapes on both sides. He didn't see anything on any of them – which was how it should be. Sinclair would make a good sniper.

He started to stroll back toward the street, and found his step slowing. The dumpster diver was gone, now, but Ian was oddly unsettled by her anyway. There was something…off. Maybe it was the color of the hair, he mused, continuing his walk. It was obviously not natural – and who would make her hair that color on purpose? And, unless she had found a box of _Nice & Easy_ during her scavenger hunts, it seemed unlikely that she would ever be in possession of the money it took to have her hair done.

Ian froze.

Money.

She had been wearing boots worth a couple of hundred dollars, at least. The cheap polyester pantsuit and oversized trench coat had stood out in such sharp contrast because the expensive boots were banging against the side of the dumpster.

Ian frowned, and started walking again. There were possible explanations. The woman could have found the boots in a second-hand store. She could be an eccentric who owned half of L.A. but found her only pleasure in moldy loaves of bread she could steal from a rat. He glanced behind the slightly-angled dumpster before he passed. Whoever it had been, she was long gone.

Edgarton moved past the open dumpster, completely unprepared for the apparition that sprang from its bowels. Sarah had climbed inside while he turned around at the end of the alley, and stood pressed in the corner, listening to his footsteps. She had her right hand in the pocket of the trench coat, worrying the end of the knife's handle.

When she determined from the sound that he was close, she stuck her head into the opening and began to mutter in earnest while she made a show of climbing out. "Needs food. Fluffy needs food."

Ian started, backing away from the dumpster. "Whoa," he breathed.

The woman was about halfway out, and having some difficulty. One hand was clutching a bag of something that may have once been oranges, and she dropped it onto the asphalt of the alley and directed her words at him, but not her eyes. "Help me out. Need to go home. Fluffy wants to pee."

Edgarton shrugged, slightly embarrassed for having suspected this woman of subterfuge. It was obvious to him now that this was one of the city's victims. Best to help her out of the dumpster now, maybe slip her a ten and get her out of the alley before Sarah made her appearance.

He smiled politely and approached the dumpster, extending a hand.

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Afterwards, David had a hard time explaining what had happened.

He agreed that it was odd for someone to climb into a dumpster – unless it was someone who was odd already. Someone mentally unstable; someone homeless; someone like the woman scrounging for rotten oranges and half-empty beer cans. Ian had already spoken to her and moved on; he must have reached the same conclusion. He must have. Hadn't he?

David Sinclair wasn't sure he would ever find out. When Edgarton had stepped up to help the woman out of the dumpster, she had sprung at him like a coiled Jack-in-the-box, taking them both down to the asphalt. Shocked, Sinclair had seen a glint of steel; he had seen Ian draw himself into a fetal, protective position; he had heard her guttural, nonsensical screaming.

He had also heard Edgarton shout his name, and Sinclair trusted his partner. That was the way teamwork was supposed to be, right?

So he stood on the fire escape and attempted to draw a bead on the suspect. It was difficult, since they were both rolling around on the ground. For a moment, David's heart pounded and he hesitated; and then he saw the glint again, as she drew her hand back in preparation for another attack. Sinclair prayed to his grandmother and any God who was in heaven, and squeezed the trigger.

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She didn't know where it came from, but the round caught her in the shoulder with the force of a bull elephant. The knife clattered to the asphalt and she was blown backwards almost two feet. She screamed both in pain, and in rage – she could see the murderer still twitching, damn him. Her left arm was useless – amputated, for all she knew – but still she managed to reach out with her right hand, and pull herself toward the knife; pull herself toward her justification; pull herself toward the promised land.

She had nearly made it, when the second round crashed through the cheap lenses of her fake glasses, its force tearing the bright knit cap from her head and flipping her completely over, so that she was lying on her back. Her eyes were open; one was filled with blood, glass and brain matter – and the other stared sightlessly at the sky.

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_**Oh, no! Ian was knifed!! How badly was he hurt? How guilty will David feel for "letting" it happen, even though he blew Sarah into another reality? Will Colby and Liz find an empty toddler classroom and kill time until 2 o'clock?**_


	27. Alexander Graham Bell

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: remains in effect**

**My Name is FraidyCat, and I'm a whump-a-holic.**

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**Chapter Twenty-Seven: **_**Alexander Graham Bell**_

Robin sounded a little…groggy. Amita glanced at the small alarm clock on Charlie's desk and chewed on her fingernail. "Uum sorree. Ur u sweepin'?"

A tad more energy entered Robin's voice. "Amita? Are you all right?"

Dr. Ramaujan spit out her own finger; it didn't taste all that good, anyway. "You were probably still sleeping," she said much more clearly, in a tone of apology. "It's only seven, but I waited as long as I could."

"Yeah," Robin agreed. "It's seven. I'm usually up by now, but Don kept me awake half the night trying to make up his mind if he wanted to brag or complain about being an uncle. He ended up doing both."

Amita sighed. "I'm sorry about that. I seem to be botching everything. Poor Charlie doesn't even know yet, but I think everybody else in California does. I didn't know Don would call you last night; I should have gotten back to you and explained the mix-up of the blood samples…"

She was starting to sound a little frantic, and Robin tried to calm her down. "Don't worry about it Amita – I'm sure you've had your hands full. Fortunately, the future Mrs. Eppes can handle simple addition -- yu know, 2 plus 2 -- so I pretty much figured out what must have happened."

Amita frowned into the phone. Her voice became a little frosty. "I'm not sure I'm going to marry Charlie, just because…I mean, he hasn't even asked…"

Robin interrupted again. "I'm not talking about _you_." The answering silence went on for so long, she felt a little nudge was in order. "You _do_ teach university-level mathematics and physics, right?"

"Mostly astronomy," Amita corrected automatically, then gasped as her synapses finally connected. "Oh, my God! You and Don are getting married!?"

Robin laughed easily. "I knew you could do it. Listen, we still have to negotiate the details, and I want to be there in person for that – do you think you can keep our secret for a while? Better than you kept yours?"

"I hate you," Amita pouted. "How's your sister? Seattle?"

Robin still sounded amused. "Emily's doctor will decide today whether to wait a little longer, or to schedule her for inducement. As for Seattle, it's usually rainy. I'm not sure about today, though – but then, I _am_ in Spokane."

Amita felt herself blushing even though no-one could see her. "I swear, I'm going to ask Charlie to design an algorithm that determines exactly how many brain cells per day a woman loses during the first trimester of pregnancy. Until it started happening to me, I thought it was a fallacy. I feel like I've turned into Larry overnight."

Robin snorted. "I'll keep that in mind. How is Charlie? Don told me that the doctor advised against your visiting until the _Brucella_ is deemed inactive. Have you at least gotten to talk to him?"

Amita shook her head, as if Robin could witness that fact. "I would never wake someone up this early," she grinned. "I'm going to wait until 9 if it kills me – and it just might."

"I doubt that Alan will wait that long," Robin observed. "My money's on 8, tops."

"Maybe I can distract him by asking to see Charlie's baby pictures again," Amita mused. She lowered her voice. "I will deny this forever, Robin, but I'm a little concerned about the nose."

Robin almost choked on a laugh, and finally managed to gasp her response. "So, how are you going to tell him?"

"I was hoping you'd have some ideas," Amita wheedled.

Robin spoke firmly, like a prosecuting attorney in her closing argument. "Oh, no, sweetheart. This one's on you."

Amita exhaled dejectedly into the cell. "I was afraid you'd say that."

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Liz gathered her long, lanky dark hair and pulled it back into a neat pony tail. She took a deliberate step away from Agent Granger, and whispered. "Knock it off. I will not compromise this assignment."

Colby toed the soft carpet in the crib room and shrugged adorably. "Aw, I wasn't suggesting we go all the way," he protested. "I was just trying to steal a little kiss."

Liz nodded at his rumpled shirt, and began to straighten her own. "You'd better tuck that in – the last thing we need is for Don to find us in a compromising position." She breathed deeply as she watched Granger unbutton his jeans so that he could rearrange his t-shirt. She smoothed the hair at her temples and forced her eyes up to his face. "Speaking of getting caught, did Alan ever figure out that you had a visitor when you were staying with him?"

Colby shifted things stage left, buttoned-up and grinned at her tell-tale blush. "Nah, I told you Dad would never wake up. He was still medicated to the gills. Slept like a baby." He frowned, slightly confused, as he heard himself say the last word. "I still can't believe The Whiz Kid is gonna be a father. It's always the quiet ones, ya know?"

Liz staggered back another half-step and felt her eyes go wide. "Charlie is _what_? When? Who? Where?"

Colby laughed and she shushed him again with a finger to her lips. "Amita let it slip at the hospital last night," he whispered. "Those two have been playing their cards pretty close to the chest – Don didn't even know!" He tilted his head, thinking. "Didn't seem to surprise Alan, though. Course, the _where_ was probably at the Craftsman, and he wasn't sick or recuperating then, so he may have…heard something…."

"All right, all right!" Liz cried, holding up a hand. "Let's just skip the details. How do I look?"

Colby smiled. "Delicious. That's what got us into trouble in the first place."

She rolled her eyes, but smiled in spite of herself. "I'll go out first. Stall for a while back here – go check on the army in the classroom next door, or something. And no more of this…stuff…on the job, understand?" She set her face in stone. "I mean it."

Colby saluted sharply and clicked his heels together. "M'am! Yes, ma'am!"

Liz started for the main room, looking for Don, muttering under her breath all the way.

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Planet Green descended from the apartment while it was still dark. Cracker sent Team Van in one direction – on foot, of course – and he and Dawn went in the other. Each team had enough money from the Kitty to stop at a fast-food franchise for breakfast. Then, Cracker and Dawn would ride the Metro to the Edendale branch of the Los Angeles Public Library, on W. Sunset. The two of them could catch up on the news there, sit in the lounge; hell, they probably had enough time to read a book. A little afte noon, they would start making their way back across town, to the Y daycare center.

Marcus, Aaron and Patty would stay on-foot until they found a van. All three of them were experienced at hot-wiring, and at successful liberation of items not originally their own. They would look for quiet, residential areas. When they had targeted a van, the three of them would spread out and watch the neighborhood for at least half-an-hour, making sure it was safe to approach the vehicle.

It was after 10, and they were headed in the general direction of an auto salvage yard to look for plates, when they lucked out, and stumbled upon a rundown house with three rusty car shells in the front yard. There were no dogs to sound an alarm, and the property was protected from the prying eyes of neighbors by a high fence that was about to fall over. While Aaron and Patty continued down the sidewalk, Marcus strolled onto the lot as if he had every right to be there. He walked right up to the front door and knocked, ready with a cover story about asking for directions in case someone answered. After several minutes and another rap to the rotting wood, he decided that no-one was home and he quickly procured the plates from the dead Dodge Colt parked closest to the house. Anyone happening by wouldn't notice anything right away; view of the Colt was blocked by the Chrysler LeBaron that squatted on its four flat tires between it and the street.

Marcus caught up with Patty and Aaron just a few blocks later, and the trio kept walking. It was after 11 before they found what they wanted. Patty had been bitching for two hours about her feet, and had tried to whine the men into the first van they saw. It was a '67 Volkswagen, though, considered a collector's item – even in its rather deplorable condition. Both Aaron and Marcus knew right away that there was a very good chance it would be reported stolen immediately. Even if it wasn't, the van would serve to call attention to them; for one of the first times in her young life, Patty did not get her way.

They finally settled on what had to be one of the most boring, nondescript panel vans in California. It was a Ford Econoline, and it looked like a giant, rectangular box on wheels. It had probably once been white, but it was difficult to tell. Besides not having been introduced to soap and water in the current century, the vehicle had obviously taken a few hits. There was some red paint transfer on the dented front passenger-side fender, and blue on the rear driver's side. Aaron had a can of black spray paint in his backpack, and he figured if they covered the red swatch, the van would be sufficiently disguised. There really wasn't much remaining body that didn't carry some sort of dent or scratch already. They'd find an alley on the way to MacArthur Park and stop to spray on the paint and switch out the plates Marcus carried in his pack. It was doubtful they could find something to kick, as Cracker had suggested – but maybe they could crack a window, or something. Aaron's main concern was whether or not the van would even start, but it grumbled to life right away when he popped the hood and ran a wire from the hot terminal of the battery to the coil. He slammed the hood, open the unlocked driver's door and climbed inside. While he was waiting for Patty and Marcus to climb through the passenger door into the back, Aaron used his fingers to feel around the sun visor, searching for a key. When he didn't find one, he shrugged – he would do a more thorough search once they got away from here, into an alley somewhere. Maybe it was in the glove compartment; it was amazing how many people were idiots about their spare keys.

Marcus pulled the passenger door shut and Aaron reached down to put the van into gear. He groaned aloud when he found the vehicle's key – sticking out of the ignition.

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"And this one," Alan shared, jabbing a forefinger into the photo album, "was taken at the San Diego Zoo. Charlie was three. Donny was eight, and he was having his tonsils out when one of his little friends had a birthday party – those brave parents took 20 boys to a circus. He'd really been looking forward to it, and I think the only time he cried over the whole tonsillectomy was when we told him he couldn't go. So when he was feeling better, Margaret and I took the boys – just our boys, not all 20 of them – down to the zoo."

Amita had seen the picture before, but everything was new these days. Don looked happy, grinning at the camera and holding a hot dog, but little Charlie, his dark hair curly even then, appeared to be sullen. His little arms were crossed in front of his tiny chest, and he was frowning. Amita smiled – she was familiar with that expression. "Did they enjoy the day?" she asked. "Charlie doesn't look very happy."

Alan chuckled fondly, ghosting his hand over the photograph. "Oh, Donny had a great time. He tried to talk us into taking along at least one of his friends, but I honestly think he had the time of his life tormenting his little brother. He told him the apes were his Aunts and Uncles, and that the Reptile House was empty because all of the snakes had escaped and were eating small children to survive." Amita giggled and he continued. "He was incorrigible, but Charlie was unhappy before we even got there. He didn't understand the concept of road signs, and mileage. As we left L.A., he saw '121' on a marker, and Don said that's how far it was to San Diego. Twenty miles later, Don pointed out an '81' to him. Charlie multiplied the two numbers, and became convinced we had to travel 9,801 miles."

Amita's eyes widened. "He was _three_?"

Alan nodded somberly. "I confess, Margaret and I never did figure out what he was doing; every time we passed one of those mileage signs, he just continued to multiply, coming up with astronomical numbers that were nonsensical to the rest of us. We all thought he was just being a typical three-year-old. By the time we got these photos developed…" – Alan smiled – "you know, back in the day before digital, Margaret had started to notice other things and she put it all together." He shook his head. "That's when the fun _really_ started."

He flipped the page of the album and discovered that they were at the end; the rest of the book contained a few mementos, such as ticket stubs and birthday cards, but no more photos. He started to close the book. "I'm sure I have a few more of these around here somewhere…."

Amita placed her hand on his to keep the book open, then pointed to a small card stuck in the binding. She could read 'Happy Father's Day' on the front. "Did one of the boys give you that?" she asked, pointing.

Alan carefully pried the card from the album. It was over 30 years old now and slightly yellowed; a little brittle. He offered it gently to Amita. "It was the first card that Charlie gave me."

"How sweet," she responded, accepting the card. "How old was he?"

Alan laughed. "He was a fetus." Amita almost dropped the card, and he laughed again. "When Don turned one, Margaret and I started trying for another child. After a few years, we all-but gave up hope. Almost three-and-a-half years, and Margaret finally discovered she was expecting again. She broke the news by leaving this card for me next to my dinner plate." His eyes grew suspiciously moist. "Poor dear had to bribe someone at a Hallmark® store to go into the storage room and scrounge up some Father's Day cards. It was only February, after all!"

Intrigued, Amita took great care in opening the card. On the inside front were the cursive words, _'New Joy, New Hope, New Father, New Baby'_. On the right side of the card, she read: _'__May all the special discoveries of fatherhood be yours; the wonders, the joys, the love that keeps on growing for a lifetime. Happy Father's Day.' _A simple signature was at the bottom: _'With love, Margaret…and Baby X'._

Amita turned the card over, then softly closed it and then looked up, unleashing doe eyes on Alan. "Could I…I understand if you don't…." She sighed softly, and placed the card back into the photo album. "You should keep that safe. You've had it a long time."

Alan was silent for a moment, struggling not to burst into tears and seem unmanly. Finally he withdrew the card from the album again, and pushed it toward Amita. "I can't think of anything more perfect," he assured the young woman. "If you recycle Margaret's card by giving it to Charlie, it will almost be like she's sharing the wonderful news with all of us. You should add your signature, under hers, and after, we will put it in your first family album. Maybe someday the baby will grow up and be the third generation to send this card." He was proud of himself for saying all of that without crying, but in the end it didn't really matter. Amita threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest, and her own tears soon soaked through his sweater. Alan blinked rapidly, smoothed her dark hair and patted her back encouragingly, smiling over her shoulder at the portrait of Margaret on the dining room wall.

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Colby watched a game of 5-card draw for as long as he could before, disgusted by the fact that the F.B.I. swat team was losing to LAPD, he decided he had let enough time lapse and left the small classroom. He headed for the main play area near the front door. "Hey, Don," he called, traversing the short hallway, "you wouldn't believe the embarrassing way those guys…" His voice trailed away as he caught sight of his Team Leader.

Don's face was gray, his expression stormy. Liz was standing near him, also facing Colby, but she refused to meet his eyes. Instead, she was standing with her hands on her hips, biting her bottom lip and staring at the floor. Colby slowed his steps and felt a chill run the length of his spinal cord. "What?" he asked.

Don waited until Colby stopped walking, just a few feet in front of him. He seemed to be having as hard a time looking straight at Colby as Liz was. "Wright just called," he muttered lowly. "Ian's down."

Colby staggered back as if sucker punched. "David?"

Don did meet his eyes then. "He's…not hurt," he answered. "He had to take Sarah out. Wright's not releasing any information to the press; we don't want to spook PG."

Colby winced. It was never easy for any law enforcement officer to use his weapon in the line of duty – no matter what you saw on television or in the movies – and it was an added burden when the perp was a woman, or young. He was relieved that his partner wasn't injured physically, but he knew from experience that there was still cause for concern. "How bad is Ian?" he asked, redirecting his thoughts.

Don frowned, frustrated -- not for the first time -- that he could not be at two places at once. "He's on his way to UCLA," he informed Granger. "Wright said he'll call with updates."

Liz joined the conversation. "What exactly happened, anyway?"

"It was a set-up," Don growled. "She managed to bury a knife in his gut. Thank God Sinclair went with him. If Edgarton had gone in without back-up – the way he wanted – it would have been his dying request."

Don abruptly stopped speaking and dropped his gaze to the floor again. Agent Granger summed it up for all three of them. "_Shit._"

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_**Oh, No! The team is separated and feeling each other's pain! Will Amita distract Alan so successfully that they both forget to call poor Charlie? Will Robin's sister ever pop? Will Don get married before Charlie becomes a Daddy? Will Ian bleed out on the way to the hospital? I'm tired.**_

_**A/N: My apologies to all the fanfic prison population who have made careers out of hotwiring cars; I had to use Google… **_


	28. HereACopThereACopEverywhereACopCop

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: remains in effect**

**My Name is FraidyCat, and I'm a whump-a-holic.**

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**Chapter Twenty-Eight: **_**Here a Cop, There a Cop, Everywhere a Cop-Cop**_

Ian was airlifted to UCLA Medical Center. David was forced to stay at the scene for a while. Having used lethal force, he had to wait while the first responding LAPD officers contacted both their superiors and the F.B.I.; Lieutenant Gary Walker and Assistant Director Wright showed up at almost the same time.

Wright exited a patrol car just as Wright had his driver stop in the street and drop him off in front of the roped-off alley. Walker spoke briefly with an officer standing guard at the rope, and then turned to face Wright. The A.D. raised one eyebrow. "Lieutenant. I'm surprised to see you here. I hadn't heard that this was gang-related."

Walker grinned. "Oh, I don't know," he ventured laconically. "Seems to me Planet Green qualifies as the worst kind of gang." Wright tilted his head in acceptance of that observation, and Walker continued. "LAPD is spread a little thin today. Your man Eppes has most of the shift with him, I think."

Again, Wright nodded briefly, his eyes straying to search for Agent Sinclair. He expected to find him seated somewhere, waiting for his arrival, but spied him pacing the alley, under the fire escape of the Red Light Hotel. Wright lifted the crime scene tape and waited for Walker to precede him into the alley. "Let's debrief him before he wears out the asphalt," he suggested.

Walker snorted. "Might be too late for that, according to Officer Michaels, here. Took three of my guys to hold him back when the EMTs took your sniper out."

Wright glanced up at the fire escape, and then over at the dumpster, and the body over which the deputy cororner knelt. "Could have another sniper on my hands," he remarked, and led the way to Sinclair.

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Patrolman Richie Santos had only been out of the academy three months. Reese, his T.O., hadn't even let him drive yet. Six months from retirement, he was a reluctant training officer at best, convinced that the green rookie was going to do something stupid and get him killed before he passed 'Go' and collected his gold watch. Santos had learned early not to let his enthusiasm for the job persuade him to offer an actual opinion. He was probably more anxious for Reese to retire than Reese was; he hoped his next T.O. was a little more ready to take on the world, and less…scared.

The guys at the station said Reese was once one of the best. Then he had taken a round in the shoulder that had almost ended his career. He had spent months rehabbing and riding a desk, more months requalifying at the range and passing all the same physical tests Santos himself had endured to be admitted to the academy. A lesser man might have taken early retirement and given up, but after almost two years Reese was back in a patrol car, training the next generation of cops. As one of that generation, however, Santos almost wished that Reese _had_ given up. He never took a chance if playing it safe was an option.

Santos fidgeted in the passenger seat like a three-year-old who had to pee, and Reese sighed. "What the hell is up with you?" he demanded, his tone put-upon and impatient.

Santos glanced almost guiltily at his T.O. and then back to the rear-view mirror between them. "Sorry," he murmured. "Been watching that van."

Reese let his eyes roam for a moment and took in the vehicle in question. "It's perfectly fine," he muttered. "Driver ain't breaking no laws. Not driving suspiciously slow or trying to evade us – been behind us for a couple of blocks now, right?"

Santos swallowed down his answer and just nodded his head. He even forced himself to look away from the mirror momentarily. At the next red light, Reese glanced over at his rookie and saw that the kid looked about as miserable as he had ever seen him. He rolled his eyes up to the rear-view again and sighed once more as the light turned and the cruiser rolled through the intersection. "Get it off your chest, then," he invited.

Santos looked over at him quickly, surprised, but nonetheless pleased. He didn't have to be asked twice. "It's not right," he said, checking the mirror again. "That's a '71 Ford Econoline. You can tell because the grille was redesigned in '71, heralding the second generation of the Ford E-series of vans."

Reese snorted. "Do tell," he interjected with more than a trace of sarcasm.

Santos felt himself flushing, but would not be deterred. "The plate was issued sometime between 87 and 91," he noted. "It's similar to the 82 plate: White background, blue letters; the word 'California' in red block letters – but there used to be a sun graphic as well, and that was dropped in 87. By 91, only reflectorized plates were issued."

Reese felt something in his chest that he hadn't felt in years; two things, actually. One, he harbored an impressed pride of Santos' knowledge and instincts. Two, his heart-rate had sped up in anticipation of a good bust. He gripped the wheel a little more tightly. "Tell you what," he shrugged. "Just for the hell of it, run the plates." He allowed himself a small grin. "But first, tell me how the sam-hill you know all that."

Santos reached excitedly for the dash-mounted computer and smiled. "My Dad was really into cars," he answered. "Automotive trivia was a way of life for my brothers and me when we grew up."

Reese continued to pilot the cruiser as Santos used his index finger to poke in the plate number. The rookie then pressed 'enter', and held his breath. Luckily it was only a few seconds before the system spit out its information. Still, he exhaled his breath in a gigantic _whoosh_ and looked triumphantly at his T.O. "That van," he shared, "should be a 1989 Dodge Colt."

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By the time David and Wright got to UCLA, Edgarton had been rushed to CT. The A.D. was able to finagle a modicum of information out of a resident, which he later shared with Sinclair. Ian had lost a significant amount of blood, both externally and by bleeding into his belly. Test results would determine whether he was in need of an emergency laparotomy, or if doctors could wait, and try a nonoperative approach. At David's suggestion, Wright returned to the resident and made a special request, then rejoined Sinclair in the trauma waiting area.

Wright eventually stepped outside long enough to call Don with an update. When he returned, it was after 10 a.m. – and David had taken all he could. The doctors wouldn't talk in his presence, anyway, so he excused himself and headed for Charlie's room. Almost 15 minutes later, having had to stop for directions no less than three times, he paused outside the room and smiled. He rubbed the back of his neck, remembering how just a few hours ago, Colby had called and told him what Amita had blurted out in the hospital the night before. His smile drooped into a frown, as he contemplated the juxtaposition of it all. He had started the morning thinking about a new life – and an hour later, he was ending one.

He carefully schooled his face and pushed the door open quietly. Half of the room was empty, and the privacy curtain around Charlie's bed had been pushed back. Charlie himself was sitting up in the large chair that had been pulled to the side of his bed.

He glanced up as he heard the door and his face, at first drawn and worried, flooded with relief. "David! It's good to see you!"

Sinclair moved to perch on the end of Charlie's bed. He smiled as he sat. "I'll bet – I understand Millie has been your only visitor."

Charlie smiled a little sadly and shrugged. "Ah, she's not so bad, I guess. What's happening?"

David tried to determine what Charlie knew by observing his face. "Look at you," he stalled. "Sitting up and everything."

"The nurse was supposed to be back by now to put me back in bed," Charlie answered, "but I think my roommate…died, or something. They took him out of here, anyway."

David let a small sigh escape. "That was probably my fault. Edgarton was injured in the field this morning, and he's downstairs. He's going to be admitted, and I thought since no-one can visit you, it might be nice to have a friendly roomie…"

Charlie frowned. "Injured? What happened? I tried to call Dad, but all he would say is that 'things were happening'. He wouldn't even let me talk to Amita!" He reached up to rub wearily at one eye. "Said she was losing her breakfast in the downstairs bathroom and he'd better go check on her. He hung up on me!"

David suppressed a grin at Charlie's distress. "Guess she's still under the weather, huh?"

Charlie shifted uncomfortably in the chair and rubbed at his eye again. "Donny's not answering his phone, and 'Mita is still sick, and I'm stuck here on this damn oxygen leash…David, tell me what's really going on, please! I've been imagining all sorts of terrible things."

David stared at the space over Charlie's head. "We got some intel on Planet Green," he finally answered. Charlie waited for more, but it seemed to be all the information with which Sinclair was ready to part.

A dark ball of worry started to churn in Charlie's stomach. "You're not telling me something. Is it Don? Is he hurt, too?"

David pulled his gaze back to Charlie and shook his head. "He's fine. In the field right now, but Colby and Liz and half of L.A.'s finest are with him. Don will be okay."

Charlie's eyes narrowed, and he studied Sinclair's face. He waited until he had a lungful of air to ask his next question. "Are _you_ all-right, David?"

David actually started a little before he tried to smile. "I'm sitting right here, Charlie. You can see that I'm all right."

Charlie thought. "Were you and Ian in the field with the rest of them?"

David shrugged. "Different assignment," he hedged. "Charlie, let's not talk about that."

Charlie's eyes narrowed even further, so that they were nearly closed. His mind raced. David and Ian were in the field. Ian was somehow injured. David was no longer in the field, although he did not seem physically compromised himself. Why else would an agent be taken out of the field, especially during an important operation like the take-down of Planet Green? And that must be what was happening, for LAPD to be working with them, and for Liz to be borrowed from the ATF. He searched for the tell-tale bulge from a service weapon in a shoulder holster under David's jacket, and did not see one. Finally he opened his eyes fully and lifted them to David's face. He spoke gently, kind empathy replacing the lines of pain on his face. "I'm sure you did whatever you had to, David."

Sinclair stood, completely unprepared for Charlie's mind-reading, and rubbed his hand over his bald head. "Well, I guess you're feeling better," he responded at length, smiling and shaking his head a little. "The synapses all seem to be firing."

Charlie leaned his head back and regarded David tiredly. "This needs to be over," he said despondently. "Planet Green needs to be put out of its misery."

David regarded his friend sadly. "We're tryin' Charlie. We're tryin'."

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The woman clutched a baby carrier in one death grip, and her four-year-old son's hand in the other. She seemed reluctant to part with either, even though Don could see that the baby carrier held only a Cabbage Patch® doll. He reached out to take it anyway, lifting an eyebrow slightly.

The redhead looked at him with haunted green eyes. "I couldn't bring the baby," she whispered. "She's only two months old."

Don handed the carrier off to Liz and reached for the little boy's hand. "I understand," he said simply, dropping his gaze to smile widely at the child. "Mrs. Marilyn saw you coming through the window. She said your name is Jimmy. Would you like me to take you to her?" Jimmy looked up at his mother, having picked up on her fear, and opened his mouth to wail a protest. Don hurried on with a pre-emptive strike. "My name is Mr. Don; I'm a new teacher here. Just like Miss Liz, who just took your baby sister."

Jimmy stuck out his lower lip in a full pout, glaring at Don. "That wasn't my sister," he announced loudly.

Don decided not to argue with him and tried to persuade the suspicious pre-schooler to trust him. "I was in the back helping Mrs. Marilyn with snack," he confided, still smiling. "It's a big job, and I'm still learning. I could use a big, smart helper. Would you be my helper?"

Jimmy looked again at his mother, who squeezed his hand and nodded once, dropping into a crouch to envelop him in her arms. "Remember, there's a field trip this morning, sweetheart, and mommy will be waiting when you get there. It's all-right to help Mr. Don. Mrs. Marilyn wouldn't let him teach here if he wasn't a safe adult."

Jimmy still didn't like it. Mommy looked like she had been crying, and why would she throw away his baby sister and replace her with a dumb doll? "Don' wanna," he sulked.

Don crouched down to Jimmy's level himself, then. First he smiled reassuringly at the frightened mother, then spoke softly to the reluctant child. "Guess what? My little brother is going to be a Daddy, Jimmy. Do you know what that makes me?"

Jimmy turned his face on his mother's breast and regarded Don with solemn eyes. He shook his head silently, sticking a thumb in his mouth.

His mother answered for him. "An 'uncle', Jimmy. Just like Mommy's brother Jake is your Uncle Jake."

Don nodded, just as serious as Jimmy. "Your Mommy's right, Jimmy – but I'm a little scared. I've never been an uncle before. What do they do?"

Jimmy seemed to think about it for a moment. Suddenly he smiled, his thumb fell from his mouth and he drew away slightly from his mother. "Uncle Jake tooked me to the place with animals."

"The zoo," his mother prompted softly.

Jimmy nodded furiously, taking a small step in Don's direction. "Zoo," he repeated. "He let me eat hot dogs and cotton candy and popcorn and I didn't feel so good for a while, but the monkeys were funny." He giggled. "One of them threw poop at us."

His mother looked horrified. "Jimmy!"

Don laughed. "Now, you see, Jimmy – that's just the sort of information I need. I want to do a good job, and be a fun Uncle." He straightened, casually stretching out his hand to Jimmy again. "What else does Uncle Jake do?"

Jimmy paused long enough to wave at this mother before latching onto Don and stepping into the daycare center. "He brings me presents. That's real 'portant."

His mother smiled and shook her head, rising to her feet to lock eyes with Don. "He always keeps Jimmy safe," she said. "Always."

Don held the little boy's hand and nodded at his mother. "I can do that," he promised. Jimmy tugged on his hand and Don glanced down. "I'll bring lots of presents," he said, and Jimmy smiled up at him happily.

After Jimmy's mother turned and started back down the sidewalk toward her car, Don closed the door softly and stared to lead Jimmy to the rear exit. "I'm good at keeping people safe," he shared. "I take care of my little brother."

"I take care of my little sister," agreed Jimmy, "but sometimes she makes a lot of noise and smells funny."

Don chuckled. "I know just what you mean."

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_**A/N: Oh, no! Will the Rookie get his T.O. killed? Will Charlie help David face his demons? Will Amita's breakfast plug the toilet? Will Uncle Don live to take his niece/nephew to the zoo?**_


	29. Tightening the Net

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: remains in effect**

**My Name is FraidyCat, and I'm a whump-a-holic.**

_**A/N: The geography of L.A. is a mixture of truth and fantasy. **_

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**Chapter Twenty-Nine: _Tightening the Net_**

Richie Santos grunted under his breath. "Huh," he pondered. "This never came up at the academy – how do we pull over someone who is behind us?"

Reese hit the turn signal, preparing to pull into the Westlake/MacArthur Park Metro station. "We don't," he informed his enthusiastic rookie.

Santos' disappointment was palpable, so all-consuming that he did not even edit his conversation. "You're scared, again," he accused. He heard the words come out of his mouth and winced, waiting to be shot.

Reese had nosed into a vacant space in the lot and was throwing the vehicle into 'reverse', intending to back out again and re-enter street traffic. He shot a dark scowl at Santos and growled indiscriminately. "That's a pretty mouth ya got on ya there, boy." Santos swallowed and wished that he could look away, but his partner's resonating anger was akin to a nasty automobile accident – he found that he just had to look. Reese rolled his shoulders and kept scowling. "We got probable for a traffic stop anytime. I just want to get behind him and _observe_ for a while." His lips parted to reveal either an evil grin – or a grimace – as he eased back onto the road. "_Observation_, Rook – brand-spankin' new police technique."

Santos wisely kept his mouth shut and finally tore his eyes away from Reese. He looked out the front windshield just in time to see the van signal and pull over to the curb, almost a block past the Metro station. Santos groaned. "Do ya think he made us?"

Reese let loose an aggrieved sigh. "Gee, I don't know, kid. I mean, what are the odds he made us for cops? Two uniformed officers in a patrol car should be fairly difficult to spot."

Santos was starting to wish Reese had just continued to coast until his retirement. "So what are we gonna do?"

The T.O.'s eyes darted to the van as they passed. When it had been in the rear-view mirror, there was only a driver to spot. Now that it was stopped, he caught a glimpse of a woman crawling into the passenger seat from the open cargo area. He quickly redirected his eyes to the road, and spoke tersely. "Langer's deli is coming up. I'll double-park and let you out. Run inside and get us a couple of coffees – maybe some Pastrami on rye. If they're watching us, they'll think we're 10-7 and can't find a parking space. I'll circle around again and pick you up."

Richie was pretty sure his day couldn't get any worse. He felt the heat of embarrassment flush his face and turned his head toward the passenger-side window. "Uh…" he stammered, "um…I'm a little strapped until pay day…"

"Oh, for the love of…" Reese started to slow down, and engaged the emergency blinkers. "Glove compartment. Wallet. Take it and go. And I want a receipt!"

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The daycare center director was long-gone, as were all the children. When they had talked to parents the night before, the team had decided not to let anyone in after 11 a.m. Even if Planet Green was watching, the lack of activity shouldn't send up any alarms. Daycare centers had state-enforced limits as to how many children they could serve at any one time. With any luck, PG operatives would just assume the center was full for the day.

Don stood in the tiny kitchenette and grinned, looking out the window at the front playground. Some poor schmuck from LAPD had spent the entire morning digging a gigantic hole as near the entrance as they dared, ferrying the dirt in his backhoe shovel to the other side of the playground, where he was building a mountain. Don supposed, if things went well today, the Y would actually come out of this a winner – the feds and the city would both pitch in to repair the playground, and the center would probably end up with some sweet, state-of-the-art equipment.

He checked his watch again as he exited the kitchenette and headed for the back classrooms, to make sure the troops back there were still awake. As he passed through the playroom, though, he ran into Colby coming from the other direction. "Did you check on our army? They need anything?"

Colby nodded. "Yeah – a few chess lessons from Charlie." He grinned. "Honest-to-God, Eppes, even _I_ could wipe the floor with those guys."

Don felt the sting of remorse and frowned slightly. "He tried to call me this morning, but we were busy with all the kids arriving and I couldn't take the call. I called him back about an hour ago, and they said he was having some kind of respiratory therapy session. I wish I could have talked to him."

Colby tried to reassure his Team Leader. "You can talk to him this afternoon, when it's all over but the paperwork – which is _never_ over." He indicated the bandage on Don's forearm. "There's less red creeping out from under the edges, today. Maybe they'll even let you see him."

Don looked at him hopefully. "Yeah, maybe. If I could see him, I could tell whether or not he's been holding out on me about this baby."

Colby shrugged and grinned. "I don't think he knows. I talked to Dave earlier, and he went up to see Charlie while Ian was having tests. Charlie was all concerned because Amita was 'still sick'. Apparently Dad even hung up on Charlie to go and help her; Alan's had his hands full of morning sickness."

Don grimaced. "Nice picture, Granger."

Colby snorted and then tilted his head. He looked thoughtfully at Don. "David said Charlie was really good with him – he didn't even know the details, but he seemed to know just what to say to make him feel better."

Don smiled. "Good for him. David's okay, then?"

"I think so," Colby mused, still thoughtful. "I mean, it's making him crazy to be on the bench while this is going down…"

Don suddenly interrupted. "Where's Warner?"

Colby flushed a deep red and let his gaze drop to his feet. "Dunno," he lied. "Maybe in the ladies' room."

Don suppressed a grin and spoke seriously to Granger. "Look, whatever you two got going is cool with me – but it's after 1 o' clock now, and we've all got to step it up a notch. Everybody's got to be on the alert – no distractions. Should I be sorry I requested her help?"

Colby looked up and met his gaze, all seriousness himself, now. "No, sir," he promised. "We're ready. _I'm_ ready."

Don allowed a small smile as he reached out to clasp Colby's shoulder. "Countin' on that, Granger. Countin' on that."

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Charlie was back in bed by the time Assistant Director Wright stopped by the room to collect Sinclair and wish Charlie well. "Edgarton should be up here soon," he informed them. "The doctors have decided against an emergency laparotomy."

"That's good," breathed Charlie. He searched Wright's face. "Isn't it?"

A.D. Wright nodded briefly. "There are several lacerations to the soft tissue of the abdomen, but apparently she managed to hit something vital only once. There is mild penetrating renal trauma."

Charlie paled and glanced at David. "His kidney?"

Again Wright nodded his affirmation. "The doctors assure me that it sounds worse than it is. Over 85 percent of such injuries are treated successfully without surgical intervention." He actually cracked a smile – albeit a brief one. "There were some seven-syllable words involved, but the gist of it is that something intrinsic to the kidney actually promotes tamponade, or clotting. The hope is that the laceration will cease bleeding on its own."

Charlie sagged a little on his pillow and closed his eyes tiredly. "I hate that word," he pouted. "I never want to hear _'tamponade'_ again."

Sinclair chuckled. "In this case, it sounds like a _good_ thing, Charlie. Although after the few days you've had, I can't say that I blame you."

Wright checked his watch and addressed Charlie again. "Agent Sinclair and I need to return to headquarters to keep an eye on this afternoon's events," he apologized, "but first – I understand that congratulations are in order!"

David had a sudden coughing fit that forced him to grab the A.D.'s forearm – tightly – and Charlie squinted, confused, in their direction. "Congratulations?" he repeated.

Wright was beginning to fear that the circulation was being cut off to his hand; and it was his gun-hand. He had not risen to his position in life by being a fool, however, and he covered himself gracefully. "I hear the new antibiotic cocktail has worked wonders in your condition."

Charlie's eyes drooped again, despite his desire to stay awake until Ian arrived. He yawned. "I'm glad. No-one can come to see me, so I'm going to have to be released and go home to see them." The speech exhausted him, and even as his audience laughed politely, Charlie drifted off to sleep.

When he awoke some time later, David and Wright were gone – and Ian was lying in a bed on the other side of the room. A unit of blood was dripping into one arm, and an IV was connected to the other. The sniper appeared to be awake, blinking at the ceiling. Charlie called to him softly. "Ian?"

Edgarton turned an angry face toward him. "It's about damn time, Eppes. I want a nurse, or one of those volunteers, or something."

Concerned, Charlie tried to rise even further from his 30-degree angle. "Are you all-right?"

Ian nodded once. "Of course. Stupid doctors won't let me get up, or I'd just go down and find one myself."

Charlie felt like he'd woken up in the middle of a conversation. "Get what?" he asked, somewhat tentatively.

Ian raised one hand and regarded the IV line leading into the back. "A damn chess set," he huffed. "I haven't had a good game of chess in months." He looked at Charlie's startled face and grinned. "I was pretty good in college."

Charlie fumbled for the call light and pushed the button for the nurse. "I'll have her get me up again, and sit over there," he proposed. "That way you won't have to move while I wipe the floor with you."

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As Officer Reese turned the corner onto the street that would lead him by the van again, he saw the passenger door open. The woman – followed by a man who was not the driver – climbed out. The man was tugging at his hair – which, Reese noticed as he drove by the van, was moving.

He stopped for Santos and cruised around the block yet again, this time entering the parking lot of the Westlake/MacArthur Park Metro station from the other side. He parked so that he could just barely see the van; Santos could see only the corner of the building. Reese accepted a cup of coffee and idly fingered the receipt that Richie had shoved at him first. "Why would a man's hair move?" he asked his rookie.

Santos had long-ago decided that Reese should have retired a long time ago, but played along anyway. "Windy," he guessed.

Reese shook his head. "Not that kind of movement. The entire head of hair…shifted…" He glanced at Santos and smiled over his coffee cup. "Ex-wife Number Three," he announced.

Richie sipped at his own coffee, waiting.

The T.O. enlightened his young partner. "She had that female baldness thing…Al…Ally…Alopecia! Yeah, Alopecia. She wore a wig for years."

Santos ventured an opinion. "That must have been difficult for both of you."

"Don't be an idiot!" Reese responded, thrusting his coffee cup back towards Santos and rotating the cruiser's dash-mounted computer to more-fully face him. "Why would a man wear a wig? It's all the rage to be a bald man, these days." He started calling up the day's BOLO reports.

Santos carefully set both cups on the floorboard, then straightened to look at Reese with barely-concealed excitement. "He's wearing a wig, and he and the woman rode in the back like so much cargo, where they wouldn't be spotted!"

Reese found what he was looking for and leaned toward his window to check out the van again. After a few seconds, he leaned back. "They've got the back doors open now. All three of them are sitting on the ledge, like they're waiting for something."

"Or _someone_," Santos supplied.

Reese lowered the driver's window and stuck his head out. Santos had counted to a slow '10' before his T.O. pulled himself back into the unit. Reese looked again at the computer screen. "I'm not sure about the driver," he said, "but the other two…I think we should call for back-up. Plain clothes."

Richie's mouth dropped open in surprise. "What? Why? It's a 503! Since when do we need back-up on a Grand Theft Auto?"

Reese waited for Santos to run down and then rotated the computer so that his rookie could see the screen. "Since the perps are most likely Planet Green," he answered mildly. Santos gaped at the photos until Reese nudged him with an elbow. "Shut your mouth, boy. And give me my coffee."

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It had taken several hours, but Amita was feeling much better. Alan, bless his heart, was making her crazy with his hovering, and offers of tea and crackers. Charlie was always complaining that he couldn't even enjoy a decent cold if his father was anywhere in the state, and Amita had always found that funny, before. Now, she was starting to think that it could be a very, very, very long pregnancy.

She began to insist that she at least go to CalSci for her afternoon classes, but Alan was ready for her. Millie and Larry were handling things for a few days, he pointed out. Amita got a little testy. "Alan, I appreciate your concern – but I cannot just _not work_ until the baby is born."

The eldest Eppes had looked slightly guilty as he said, "Of course not!" – which led Amita to believe that he was hoping for exactly that. As her face darkened, Alan searched for the holy grail. "I just think you should take it easy when you can! Millie and Larry have already made arrangements for today's classes."

"I could work in my office," she countered.

Alan dangled a bit of bait. "I'm going to the doctor this afternoon for another blood draw, to check my white blood cell count. You could go with me, and while we're downtown, we could hit some of those eclectic little shops. You might find something perfect to give Charlie with his Father's Day Card!"

Amita felt herself wavering, and hated herself for it. "You are not playing fairly," she accused.

Alan smiled. "Whoever told you that I did?" he teased.

Little more than an hour later, _she_ was the one trying to cheer _him_ up; the blood test had shown that his WBC count was still too high to allow Alan to visit Charlie. Amita convinced him that exercise was good for a pregnant woman, and would strengthen his own immune system as well – so they left the car in a parking garage and walked from store to store. Alan carried a small bag containing two pair of baby booties – one pink, and one blue – when he remembered one more children's store in the downtown area that he would like to show Amita.

She agreed readily, thoroughly enjoying herself by now. Her only regret, as she smiled at the young couple heading into the downtown Y's daycare center, was that Charlie wasn't with her.

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_**A/N: Oh, no! Cracker and Dawn are on their way to blow up not only Don, Colby and Liz; but now Amita and Alan as well! Charlie is at the mercy of Sniper Chess, and Santos may get a promotion! As for those of you who want this story to end – trust me, so does Serialgal, who patiently awaits my return to the Rabid Raccoons production currently de-railed because of this unending monster.**_


	30. KaBoom

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: remains in effect**

**My Name is FraidyCat, and I'm a whump-a-holic.**

_**A/N: The geography of L.A. is a mixture of fact and fantasy. **_

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**Chapter Thirty: **_**Ka-Boom**_

Taking into consideration the 'day off' he was having, Lieutenant Gary Walker considered himself a very lucky man. At first he had been disappointed when the higher-ups informed him that he would not be needed at the target site of the Planet Green bombing. Most of his unit was there, and he had volunteered along with the rest of them. However – no doubt after a six-hour conflab conducted over day-old donuts and bad coffee – administration had decided LAPD needed a few experienced officers available to respond to the other calls that were sure to come in. The safety of the L.A. streets could not be left in the hands of inexperienced rookies and bitter T.O.s; nor could the safety of those patrolmen be ignored. So Walker was culled from his unit and given the temporary and pointless designation of Transition Liaison.

To his credit, Walker may have complained to his wife – but he sucked it up and reported for duty bright-and-early at 6 on his day off, ready to do his part. When he was called to the scene of the officer-involved shooting and the discovery was made that one of Planet Green's most wanted leaders was down, he figured that was his Karma for the day. How cool was it that he was yanked from the bombing detail only to end up with the first PG casualty?

Then, he got the call about at least two more wanted members parked outside of the Westlake/MacArthur Park Metro station, and it got even sweeter. Two uniforms were keeping an eye on the suspects. Luckily, one was Mac Reese, a 20-year-plus veteran who had apparently decided to stop advancing toward retirement on cruise control and actually teach his rookie something.

Walker was nothing if not a glutton, though, and he wanted more of the rich success fate was sending his way. He might have been able to take the van on his own – but the uniforms couldn't get too close without being spotted, so there was no good intel on possible weaponry. LAPD coverage on the streets was thin – and concentrated in the area of the downtown Y. More pleased with himself than he probably should be, Walker contacted the Assistant Director of the Los Angeles Bureau of the F.B.I., and offered to take Wright under his wing for a little old-fashioned street justice.

The feds were feeling the personnel crunch as well, so he really wasn't too surprised when Wright agreed. After all, the man was still required to qualify physically and on the firing range, exactly for opportunities such as this.

Walker grinned as he swaggered to the unmarked vehicle. He and Wright would meet at the Wilshire/Vermont Metro station and ride the Red Line right to S. Alvarado St. No way could the _alleged_ perps in the van make their unmarked if they didn't bring it anywhere near the final destination.

Potential bombings aside – and surely Eppes would handle _that_ threat with his usual finesse – life could be sweet.

Very sweet indeed.

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Liz looked up from her perch on the child-sized chair, at the child-sized table, as the daycare's entrance door was pushed open. She laid aside her paperwork and stood in one fluid motion, smiling and approaching the young couple with her hand extended. "Good afternoon! Welcome to the YMCA's downtown Infant and Preschool Program!" She shook Cracker's hand – careful to present a weak rendition of her usual grip – and moved on to Dawn, still smiling. "My name is Miss Liz. How can I help you today?"

Cracker glanced at Dawn and then let his eyes dart around the suspiciously-empty playroom. "Where are all the kids?"

Liz backed more deeply into the room, leading them in whether they knew it or not. She laughed, and looked around. "Yes, I suppose this _is_ unusual for a childcare center! Mrs. Marilyn, our director, and several of the other teachers, took them through the back over to the gym for some exercise." She rolled her eyes dramatically. "We haven't been able to take them outside all day because of the workmen, and they were getting antsy – to say the least!" Liz lifted her wrist and glanced at her watch. "We want to try to keep things as close to normal throughout this process, and nap time is at 2:30." She smiled at Cracker brightly. "Gotta tire the little things out somehow!" Cracker allowed a slight chuckle, and Dawn turned her head to glare at him.

Liz backed farther into the room, almost all of the way to the kitchen, where Don waited, his Glock at the ready. "Would you like some juice?" she asked, and then giggled like a lovestruck teenager. "Oh, dear. We have coffee also – it's just that I'm used to serving the little ones!"

Dawn moved so that she was effectively separating Liz and Cracker, glaring at him again as she passed. This was serious business, and they'd _all_ be damned if their fearless leader couldn't rip his eyes off the little tart long enough to get with the program. "We have a kid," she blurted out, then stopped speaking as she felt Cracker's hand at her back.

He smiled disarmingly at Liz, looking for all the world, in his chinos and button-down, like a freshly-minted college graduate eager to take on success. "A _child_," he said, poking Dawn so hard she took half-a-step forward. "Two years old, now – Gretta. She's in another daycare, but we're unhappy with what she's learning there." He snorted. "Or _not_ learning. All they do all day is play, and Gretta's very smart. She's ready to be challenged."

Dawn remembered her lines. "We've heard such good things about the Y's program," she said, forcing out another smile, "but we understand there's usually a waiting list?"

Liz nodded, glancing at the papers she had left on the table. "That's usually true," she agreed, "but I was just processing out of our toddlers. We'll miss him so much, but the family is moving. Are you sure I can't get you something to drink?"

Dawn shook her head and seemed to blush slightly. "Actually, I already need to use the ladies' room. I had a lot of water with my lunch – is there somewhere…?"

Liz's gentle smile was genuine. "Our adult-size restroom is down the hall, first door on the left," she said, indicating the general direction. "It's clearly marked." _And there's a six-foot, 180-lb. hunk of manhood waiting there for you_, she concluded silently, thinking of Colby hiding in one of the stalls.

Cracker rejoined the conversation. "Hurry back, sweetie," he crooned, watching Dawn walk away and then turning to wink at Liz. "I'll just look around a little while we wait." He approached the East wall, where several finger-paintings were displayed. "What age group did these?" he wondered.

"Our toddlers," Liz answered quickly, making a judgment call. If she stalled Cracker in the playroom, Don might be able to get the drop on him from the kitchen, especially if she led Cracker a little more to the left. However, it would be difficult for her to stand completely out of the line of fire without things appearing off, and the Planet Green leader was pretty much a perfect match for Eppes, when it came to body mass. A physical wrestling match, while she dove for the tiny back-up piece strapped to her ankle, was a distinct possibility. The noise alone would alert Dawn in the bathroom, maybe before she was finished with the C-4. Granger's orders were to wait until she was as dirty as possible before he took her down, and he could be caught out. The scenarios raced through her mind at warp-speed; it was only seconds before she decided to go with Plan B.

She moved around the small table again, stooping to push in some chairs and stepping on the alert button hidden under an area rug. Time to wake up the army. "Would you like to see their classroom?", she asked Cracker as she straightened. "It's opposite the restroom, so your wife can join us there."

Cracker let his eyes linger on Liz's silk blouse, which was clinging in all the right places. A few minutes alone in a back-room with the friendly young teacher? "Why not?" he answered, smiling. He let Liz pass him to lead the way. He followed politely, admiring the view.

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Norman Wright staggered sideways into Gary Walker, and the two of them nearly veered off the sidewalk. The A.D. laughed loudly and slapped Walker so hard on the back that his teeth rattled. "Shoulda had one more martini!" he yodeled.

Walker rolled his eyes and stepped away from the cloying grip. "I'm not taking you back to the office as it is. You've got to find somewhere to sleep it off."

Wright's face fell in dejected disappointment and he tried to latch onto Walker again, tripping over something unseen and probably nonexistent on the concrete. "Aw, come on, Mikey!"

Walker took a jog-step to the left, nearly hitting the young woman standing at the back of a cargo van, its rear doors open. Two men sat inside, a deck of cards on the floorboard between them, and all three had looked up at the approaching noise. Gary skidded to a stop and smiled at the young girl. "Sorry. Sorry, miss." He looked at the men in the back of the van. "Sorry, didn't mean any harm to the lady." He shot forward and bumped her again as A.D. Wright careened into his back.

Walker grunted. "Oh, good Lord. I never should have taken him out to lunch on his birthday!" He turned, so that his back was to the trio at the van. He placed one hand on Wright's shoulder. With the other, he reached cautiously under his jacket. "Dammit, Roy, you apologize to these fine folks!" he huffed.

Wright seemed to be trying to climb right over the top of Walker, hanging onto his lapel and appealing to the group at the van. "They're okay, Mikey," he crowed, grinning like a Jack-O-Lantern. "You – _hic_ – ain't mad, righ?"

Patty met Marcus' eyes and rolled her own, and Aaron waved an impatient hand at the two drunks. "Just move on," he ordered.

Wright eased Walker aside a few inches. "One –_ hic_ – lash thing," he insisted, and Aaron sighed.

"What is it, you drunken fool?"

Wright stepped around Walker completely then, and raised his right hand so that the semi-automatic 9mm was close enough to blow Marcus' head into next year. At the same time, Gary pirrouetted like a ballet dancer, spinning to place the muzzle of his Beretta directly against Patty's ear. "Spread-eagle on the sidewalk, missy, or I'll just go ahead and spread you all over it myself," he growled.

Wright grinned at the gaping Aaron and Marcus. "You, too," he ordered. "And be careful who you call a _'drunken fool'_, asshole."

Officers Reese and Santos, in full uniform, had approached from the front of the sidelined van, staying low and negotiating between parked cars to avoid Patty's view. Now they stood ramrod straight: Santos was covering Patty and Reese had circled the van on the street side to back-up Wright. The three police officers and one F.B.I. agent kept their weapons trained steadily as Planet Green became one with Mother Earth.

Once they were down, hands interlaced behind their heads, Reese holstered his weapon and set about handcuffing the suspects. He knelt and made quick work of the men, then glanced at his rookie when he straightened to move to the woman. Richie's eyes were huge, wide and dilated, and Reese was glad Walker had his weapon trained on the female too. He winked at Santos. "This is not," he deadpanned, "a 1971 Dodge Colt. It's your bust, Rook – read 'em their rights."

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Liz stumbled over the threshold of the door as she opened it. She cried out, made a move as if to latch onto the frame, and then let herself pitch forward. Cracker automatically reached for her, missing. By the time Agent Warner had executed a full round-off somersault, liberating her back-up piece from her ankle holster on the way, Cracker found himself facing an ever-increasing number of assault rifles, semi-automatic pistols, even a few shotguns. Body-armor-clad police officers were appearing like smoke from behind flannel boards and partitions; some were even lying under the small tables, their weapons aimed directly at him.

He tried to take a step back, but felt Don's Glock in his back. "On your knees," Eppes commanded. Cracker did as he was told, his mind frantically searching for some way to make this right. "On your stomach – keep your hands over your head," Don continued. Cracker moved as slowly as he dared, trying to give Dawn time to apply all of the C-4. The remote was in the front pocket of his chinos; he could easily twist when he lay down, until the button was depressed. If Dawn was almost finished, the explosion would kill them all – but Cracker was ready to die for his cause. At the very least, even a small amount of C-4 would kill Dawn, who would be right in front of the explosion. In the ensuing panic, Cracker would escape. Dawn would forever be revered in Planet Green; he would make sure of it.

The pig behind him growled something else, and Cracker tried not to smile as he lowered himself to the floor.

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Colby heard the woman enter the restroom. He was perched on top of the toilet in the handicapped stall, holding the door slightly open so that it looked unoccupied. He gripped his service weapon tightly in case she screwed everything up by deciding to use the handicapped. He grinned and barely suppressed a laugh; if she did, at least he could bust her for that, since it was illegal.

He barely breathed as her footsteps began to approach. There was a pause, and he heard her set something on the tile floor. Then he detected the sound of pee echoing in a toilet bowl, and grimaced. Apparently she was using the facilities before she blew them up. A few seconds passed, and the toilet flushed. He heard rustling as she rearranged her clothing.

Suddenly, she began to whisper to herself. _"Take the C-4 and roll it between your palms until it's like Play-Doh®,"_ she narrated, and Colby couldn't believe his luck. He had intended to exit his hiding place as soon as he heard her wrestling with the ceramic toilet, but now he could wait until she summoned him!

He heard the sound of skin rubbing again skin – or something more ominous – and then a series of grunts, punctuated by the occasional scrape of porcelain-against-porcelain. "Wrap it around the back," she whispered; then, _"attach the detonator, and move on to the second block…"_

When Colby caught 'detonator', he decided that he had enough to take her. Quietly, all stealth, he lowered himself from the seat of the toilet.

And then Cracker twisted his hip just so, depressing the remote against the carpeted floor of the toddler classroom.

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Charlie had just picked up his Knight. He seemed to be contemplating a move when a sudden shiver ran through him and his grip convulsed. The chess piece fell from his hand and bounced off Ian's bed, rolling several feet across the floor.

Ian grinned. "That won't work, Doc – I'm not going to let you throw away the pieces." He reached for the nurse's call button. "I'll get someone in here to pick that up – because I am _so winning_ this game!" His finger paused as he took a good look at Charlie, who was suddenly pale, his respirations increasing. Edgarton frowned. "Eppes? You ok?"

Charlie didn't seem to hear him, but started pushing up feebly on the arms of the chair. "Something bad…" he whispered.

Ian jabbed at the call button. "Hey, slow down," he implored, as Charlie began to stagger in hunched, short steps in the direction of his bed. "The nurse is coming, Charlie – wait!"

Charlie continued to ignore him, finally reaching the safety of his bed and crawling onto the bottom half, which was not elevated. He lay on his side, in as close to a fetal position as he could get, considering the drainage tube and bag. He struggled to pull the sheet over his head. "It's really bad," he whispered again, and then began to moan. The sound was constant, plaintive, a heart-breaking and frightening cry that chilled Ian to the bone.

He jabbed at the call button again.

Something bad, indeed.

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_**Oh, no! How big is the blast? Where are Amita and Alan? Will everyone in the daycare center be blown to smithereens? Will Santos make detective while he is still a rookie? Oh, woe!**_


	31. Shrapnel

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: remains in effect**

**My Name is FraidyCat, and I'm a whump-a-holic.**

_**A/N: The geography of L.A. is a mixture of fact and fantasy. **_

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**Chapter Thirty-One: **_**Shrapnel**_

It sounded as if a car had backfired directly outside the small shop. Amita made an involuntary yelp of distress and pitched forward into Alan. He _oomphed_ and dropped the pale yellow baby afghan he was holding up for Amita to see, staggering backwards into a solid wall even as he reached for her arm to offer a steadying hand. It was as she pushed herself back into a fully-upright position that she understood the floor had been rumbling beneath their feet. She smiled nervously and started to turn her head toward the entrance. "Was that an earthquake?"

Alan followed her gaze and was shocked to see that the two large display windows were cracked. As he moved up beside Amita, one was threatening to shower glass all over the immediate interior of the shop, and a saleswoman was trying to force the other two customers away from the front of the store before they were speared. Alan balanced on the balls of his feet and waited for aftershocks. "I don't know," he admitted, looking around. "Maybe we should find a doorway…"

He snuck his arm around Amita's waist and she leaned into him gratefully, more rattled than she cared to admit. She chuckled self-deprecatingly. "I've lived in Southern California my entire life, and I'm just never ready for this."

Alan started to steer his grandchild's mother toward the back corner of the store, away from potential projectile glass. At least the store specialized in blankets and quilts – if things started flying around, he would cocoon Amita in layers and then lie on top of her, if he had to. "I should hope not," he soothed, grabbing an over-stuffed pillow from a display. "I always think it's a sad commentary when someone claims to be _'used'_ to these things!"

Amita let Alan take care of her and was sorry for everything bad she had thought about him that morning. "Shouldn't there be some aftershocks?" she murmured.

Before Alan could answer, the wail of sirens split the air – dozens, from the sound of it, and growing closer. Alan helped Amita lower into a corner full of plush animals. "This can't be the epicenter," he mused, almost to himself. "It wasn't that strong…"

Amita pulled on his arm and he plopped onto the floor next to her. He embraced her shoulders and abstractly smoothed her dark hair. "Don't worry," he crooned. "We're fine. We're safe. Don't worry, dear."

Amita sniffed, feeling so foolish she felt like she had to explain to the button on his shirt. "I'm not worried about me," she offered, then raised troubled eyes to his. "You're right, this can't be the epicenter. Maybe the hospital…"

Alan shushed her. "Hush, now. Charlie's good. He's fine. Do you hear either of our cells ringing?"

She relaxed against him marginally, but still sighed. "Not yet," was all she could let him have.

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Dawn was leaning over, digging through her pack for another block of C-4, when she decided that the detonator cap could serve two blocks of the explosive if she arranged it so that it lay between them. Cracker would be pleased that she conserved their resources. She pushed the pack almost all the way under the dividing partition so that she could gain better access to the back of the commode. She had just liberated one end of the detonator wire and was a few inches away from the cap when Cracker lay on the remote.

For C-4, it was a small explosion. The amount of product they had brought with them would have leveled at least one city block. As it was, the force blew the wig right off her head, the hand right off her arm, and propelled her ten feet backwards. She was stopped by the shattered mirror over the row of sinks. She was beyond feeling it, of course, but a shard reminiscent of a stalactite sliced the vertical length of her back as she slid down the wall, severing her spinal cord in two places. At that point, she lost even the body's natural death throes, becoming a rag doll. She landed almost neatly in one of the sinks, her arms and legs akimbo, her eyes sightless in a face scorched with third-degree burns. Her blood dripped down the drain, and a cheap black wig dropped from the ceiling into her lap.

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They had pulled the curtain between the two beds, and Ian tried to burn a hole through it with his eyes. When Charlie had first freaked out, Edgarton was afraid that there had been some sort of new physical crisis; maybe he shouldn't have let Charlie sit up for so long playing chess. Ian had pushed the call-button over and over, and hospital personnel were finally beginning to pour into the room when he checked his watch.

He almost stopped breathing himself when he saw that it was 2:15. Charlie's moans were most incomprehensible, but occasionally Amita's name, or Don's, could be recognized. Once, Ian was sure he understood Charlie to ask for his father. He began to get a tight feeling in his chest as nurses and doctors were unable to determine a physical cause for Charlie's distress.

Ian was a tracker; of native American heritage; he could smell his prey. But this was just _weird_. Charlie hadn't been told the specifics of what was going down, today. Sure, he knew that things were heating up with Planet Green, and even unwell he could probably discern that his brother would be involved in that somehow. But freaking out at exactly 2:15? _Weird._

One of Charlie's doctors called for a sedative, and a nurse took off at a run out of the door. That's when another pulled the curtain between the beds. When Ian's glare didn't produce any results, he twisted painfully in the bed until he could reach the telephone. He wished he had his own cell – David's personal cell, as well as Wright's, were programmed into his unit. The best he could do now was to remember the number of Eppes' desk in the bullpen. He knew Eppes wasn't there, but he hoped someone answered before voice mail activated.

He almost slammed down the phone in disgust when the call went to into the system, ane he heard Eppes inviting him to leave a message. In fact, the receiver was already several inches away from his ear when he heard a click followed by Sinclair's voice. "Special Agent Eppes' desk; this is Special Agent Sinclair. May I re-route your call through the switchboard?"

"No!" Ian yelled, and someone standing at Charlie's bedside peaked around the curtain. "Sinclair, wait! Wait! It's Ian."

He held his breath, anxious to learn if David had heard him. At length, a guarded "Ian?" rewarded his patience.

He sighed and smiled. "Yeah, yeah, David. Listen, is everything all right?"

David was silent for so long that Ian was afraid he had decided to hang up after all. "Sinclair?" he asked anxiously.

"We got three of them," David finally answered, almost in a monotone. "They were waiting with a get-away vehicle near the Westlake/MacArthur Park Metro station." He snorted, mildly. "An LAPD uniform rookie made 'em."

Ian closed his eyes in relief. "Good," he exhaled, "that's good." He opened his eyes and looked at the curtain separating him from Charlie, again. "Listen, have you heard anything about Eppes' operation? It's weird, man, but Charlie just freaked out big time. They're sedating him before he hurts himself. He was fine, and then he was crying for his girl, and yellin' for Don – it was freaky." David was silent again. Ian lowered his voice. "Sinclair, you are _not_ easing my mind, here."

The detached monotone eventually answered. "I'm waiting for news. There was an explosion. We lost radio contact. I don't know how bad it is."

Ian gripped the plastic so hard the hospital phone almost melted. "Holy shit," he breathed. He felt his eyes go round as he looked toward Charlie's bed – he could still hear a quiet whimpering. "Holy shit," he repeated. "Just how close _are_ those two?"

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Colby was sure he had stepped on a land mine.

There was no other explanation for the fire in his leg, or the twisted debris under which he lay. He groaned, waiting for this to turn into another bad dream, another memory of Afghanistan. His head was pounding, and heard distant noises: running water…voices, perhaps. He couldn't quite make out what they were saying, which meant the voices probably belonged to one or more of the native factions. They were no doubt combing through the rubble looking for American weapons, and shooting anyone who wasn't already dead.

Colby suppressed a moan, and lay as still as he could, waiting to die.

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Don was standing in the open doorway to the toddler classroom when the blast ripped the door from its hinges and slammed it into his side with the force of an entire football team. Part of the door hit him in the head and he saw stars as lurched sideways. Off-balance, half-unconscious, still his insincts led him to fight to stay on his feet. He became tangled in Cracker's legs, however, and went down hard. His service weapon flew out of his hand and skidded across the carpet, stopping only when it collided harmlessly with the back of one of the small chairs, which had been pushed over by either a falling flannel board or the LAPD officer who had broken his own nose with the butt of his rifle and was lying unconscious in the growing rubble. Don shook his head, regretting it almost immediately as he nearly lost his breakfast, and scrambled woozily to his hands-and-knees, gazing at the carnage. The shouts and moans of downed officers were becoming more clear as the sound of the explosion faded. He reached automatically for his back-up piece on his ankle while he continued to search for Liz. She was the only one not wearing a vest.

He finally spied a familiar sock – the shoe was gone, but the leg attached, thank God, was moving. She was under a member of the F.B.I.'s own swat team – much later, she would remember him deliberately wrestling her to the ground and protecting her with his own body. Don started to push himself up into a standing position when he remembered the suspect.

He glanced toward where the door used to be just in time to see Cracker's leg disappear from sight. The asshole was crawling away.

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When several minutes passed without an aftershock, one of the store's customers and the sales clerk went into the back room. The broken glass near the front entrance was foreboding, but the woman who worked at the shop told them that there was another exit in the back. It emptied into a small employee parking lot that was shared with the coffee shop next door; she suggested a reconnaissance mission.

Alan would have volunteered to help immediately, but felt obligated to stay with Amita. In fact, he had been nearly overcome with a strong feeling of responsibility to her – and to his son, whose presence he felt very strongly – ever since the incident had occurred. The other two customers, the ones who had been near the front windows, were a couple who appeared to be around Don's age. Observing how Alan had protected Amita, the man first led his partner to the opposite corner of the store, where he did the same thing.

Then he disappeared with the clerk into the back. He kept up a running dialogue – mostly for the benefit of his wife, Alan was sure – but it was nice to know what was going on, anyway. Inventory was stored in the back room, and the young man and the clerk dug through the fallen boxes and shelves until they created a path to the door. They had some difficulty wrenching the door open, but finally did.

They left the relative safety of the store together. The clerk, a woman about Millie's age, turned out to be the owner; she felt it was her responsibility and her right to figure out what was going on. Even the back of the building was teeming with people, and as they worked their way to the front, they could see smoke coming from the nearby Y daycare center. A crowd was gathering, police and fire vehicles were screeching to a stop, and it was starting to look as if there had been no earthquake at all.

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She wasn't thinking about the baby. She was thinking that the jerk had knocked her up, brought her to a tiny store virtually unknown to man and left her in the middle of an earthquake. Barely affording Alan and Amita a look, the final customer rose on shaky legs and headed for the front door.

Alan struggled to his own feet, pleading. "Please, miss! Ma'am, we need to stay away from the windows!" She ignored him. In fact, she increased her speed, and was almost at a full jog when she pushed through the door and out onto the sidewalk, into a growing throng of people. Alan had been following, but the cracked glass suddenly shattered, cascading mostly into the store. Amita screamed; the crowd on the sidewalk screamed and jumped back; Alan may have even screamed when he turned and headed back for Amita as fast as he could.

She was standing when he got there, reaching out to pull him toward her and fighting back tears. "Don't do that again! Are..are you all r-r-right?!"

Alan hugged her hard, speaking into her ear. "I'm fine, dear, I'm fine." He took a step back, and smiled. "It's all good, as they say."

In spite of herself, Amita laughed. She let her gaze wander in the direction of the back room, then looked questioningly at Alan. "Do you think we should just go? Maybe it wasn't an earthquake."

He shrugged, and took her hand in his. "This is a pretty safe place, relatively speaking," he began.

Neither one of them was prepared for the man who burst through the back entrance in blood-covered chinos, limping to a halt and swearing as he registered the sea of glass that prevented his escape through the front. He turned as if to retreat through the same door he had come in, but swore and turned again, this time coming directly at Alan and Amita.

Alan stepped in front of the young woman, urging her as far into the protected corner as he could. The stranger barreled into the old man at full speed, burying his hands in his shirt and slamming Alan backwards so that his head made contact with the concrete wall behind him. He didn't even hear Amita calling him, or her shriek of horror when the stranger turned on her and pulled her out of the corner, whipping her around to stand as a shield between him and the cop who had chased him all the way from the daycare center.

Amita whimpered and struggled as Cracker crooked an arm around her neck and pulled her head back so far she was sure he would break it right off its stem. "SHUT THE HELL UP!" he ordered.

Alan, in an unconscious heap on the floor, didn't even see his own son when Don came crashing after Cracker, blood trickling down the side of his face and a .38 clutched in his hand. "BACK OFF!" Cracker yelled again, wrenching Amita's neck even further. "BACK OFF, OR SHE'S DEAD!"

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_**A/N: Oh, no! I cannot seem to stop the whump. As a tribute to those of you understandably upset when I ripped Charlie's hand off in an explosion – I repeated the plot device on Dawn (who is definitely not a candidate for reattachment). What's going on back at the daycare center? Will someone find Colby, even though he is trying to hide? Will Charlie feel Amita's terror even through his sedation? Will Don be forced to let Cracker escape, dragging the hapless heroine with him? Oh, woe!**_


	32. See Title Inside

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: remains in effect**

**My Name is FraidyCat, and I'm a whump-a-holic.**

_**A/N: The geography of L.A. is a mixture of fact and fantasy. **_

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**Chapter Thirty-Two: **_**Is That a Water Pipe in Your Pants or Are You Just Happy to See Me?**_

Colby squinted up at Liz's concerned face warily. She kneeled over him in a growing puddle of water, oblivious to the other law enforcement personnel working around the duo to clear a space in the rubble of the former bathroom. She smiled, and placed a hand on either side of his face. "Take it easy, Agent Granger. You're fine – just fine. We'll have you out of here in no time."

His brow furrowed in confusion. She was holding his head immobile with her hands, but his eyes darted hither and yon, seeking some semblance of sense. "Liz?" he croaked, finally settling his gray eyes upon her brown ones. "What the hell are you doing in Afghanistan?"

She reached for his hair, and pet him as if she were soothing a cat. "We're not in Afghanistan, Granger. Planet Green, remember? They brought the war right here to L.A." She drew her hands back and leaned back on her haunches, but maintained contact with Colby, leaving a palm to rest on his truly fine abs.

Recognition began to take hold, but Granger still looked confused. "Why am I all wet?" He tried to move and let loose with a groan. "We _must_ be in Afghanistan," he complained, sinking back to a prone position. "There's a bayonet in my leg."

Liz smiled, an expression that did not quite reach her eyes. "It's not a bayonet, Agent. There appears to be part of a broken pipe setting up housekeeping in your calf – but we'll take care of that, don't worry. The guys are clearing a path for rescue right now."

Suddenly Colby's face blushed bright red. "Aw, geez," he moaned. "I was in the bathroom. Did I pee my pants – is that where all the water is coming from?"

This time Liz's laugh was genuine, and she tapped him lightly on the chest with her hand. "No-one would blame you if you did, but no, Colby. The water main burst."

He sighed in relief. "Just a little shrapnel? Everything's still attached?"

Liz thought of the hand she had stepped on in her frantic search for Granger and shuddered, looking again at both of his, which were still where they were supposed to be. "Yes, thank God," she breathed.

Colby misunderstood her concern and twisted a grin in her direction. "I'm as happy to hear that as you are," he winked.

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Don felt as if he had burst in on his own worst nightmare. He skidded to a halt just inside the door, but maintained his two-handed grip on the .38. The gun wavered almost imperceptibly as Cracker whipped Amita around like a rag doll, placing her in-between himself and the gun. Don breathed heavily, and willed himself to wake up. It was not possible that he was in this position. That could not be his father crumpled at Cracker's feet. He was not pointing a loaded weapon at the woman his brother loved – and their unborn child. "Let her go," he growled. "You're never making it out of here – we got cops from two agencies all the hell over the place."

Cracker sneered, pulling back on Amita's neck with a bit more force. "Yeah, and I just sent most of 'em back to their Maker!" he chortled.

Amita clawed uselessly at Cracker's forearm, her feet no longer firmly on the floor. She shot a terrified look toward Don, and everything she loved flashed before her in a kaleidoscope of images. She thought of Charlie, and how much she loved him. She thought about Alan, still and silent on the floor, and the anger began to churn inside. Finally, she thought of the baby in her womb; a baby she had not planned or anticipated, a baby whose existence had sent her head and life spinning, a baby she suddenly knew she wanted and adored more than life itself.

Don almost dropped his weapon when a guttural scream burst from Amita and her face twisted in rage. Before he could speak, the professor had buried one elbow in her assailant's ribs, and Don heard 'Cracker' earn his name from across the room when at least one rib gave way under the attack. The terrorist bellowed and involuntarily loosened his grip – just as Amita let all of her weight fall onto her knees.

Her head jerked back once, then popped underneath Cracker's hold like a cork out of a bottle. Momentum took her all the way down – her descent stopped only by Alan's still-unconscious body – and Planet Green's last man standing found himself with no hostage, no weapon, and one very pissed-off pig.

Cracker's bravado fell faster than Amita had, and he jerked one hand over his head even as he started for his pocket with the other. "Don't shoot!" he yelled in distraction, angling slightly and feeling around for the remote. Another explosion should take care of all of them, he decided, and he was ready to be a martyr for his cause. "Don't shoo…"

The rest of the sentence was silenced by the sudden report of gunfire. Cracker thudded into the same wall into which he had thrown Alan. Legs turning into jelly, he slithered into oblivion as Amita screamed and tried to crawl on top of Alan, and Don jerked and looked at his gun; he could have sworn he had been lowering the .38 to his side.

"That there guy just pissed me off no end," drawled a voice, and Don jerked his head around again, stunned to see Lt. Gary Walker and Assistant Director Norman Wright standing on the outside of the shattered window. Don wasn't even sure which man had fired – both had their weapons in position. Walker worked his jaw and elbowed Wright. "I saw a knife. Didn't you?"

Wright let his eyes wander to his Agent, and then back to the carcass on the floor. "Damn sure going after something," he agreed. He glanced at Don, again. "Don't just stand there, Eppes – help the lady up!"

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Lee Havercamp secured another layer of guaze to Don's forearm with paper tape and reached for yet another roll.

Don tried to pull his arm back, but had virtually no range-of-motion. "Come on, Doc," he begged. "I feel like the Sta-puf® man already!"

She smirked a little, but kept on applying the bandage. "Your arm looks much better, but you've only been on the antibiotics 24 hours; by all rights, I should make you wait at least two more days before I expose your brother to the potential hazard of staph." She taped off the last layer and frowned, reaching into her lab coat pocket and withdrawing a surgical mask. "Remember, you must wear this the entire time you're in the room. And no touching."

Don accepted the mask and tried to appear grateful. "I understand the risks, Lee; I do. Believe me, I'm the last one who wants to see Charlie have another relapse, or develop any more complications."

Havercamp relented somewhat. "I'm sure that's true." She glanced down the corridor toward Charlie's room. "He needs to see you. When I stopped by to visit earlier, he had just been sedated. Agent Edgarton told me how upset Charlie became; his physicians are concerned that he could hurt himself, but it's not good to keep him sedated all the time, either. We're all hoping this visit will help him calm down."

"I'll do my best," Don promised, tying on the mask.

Havercamp smiled. "Of course," she agreed. "I'll walk you as far as the elevator. I need to move on to the next hospital on my list – Cedars-Sinai, I think – but tell Charlie I'll see him later this evening, or perhaps in the morning." Don made a muffled sound of affirmation and the two walked in silence for a few more feet. They reached the elevator, and Don waited politely for the lift to open before he took off down the hall. Stepping into the car, Havercamp raised her eyebrows at the agent and began speaking again as the door started to slide closed. "No hugging," she amended, "and if you must touch, use your unaffected side. Wash your hands!"

Don smiled behind his mask and lifted the arm he could still move in a salute good-bye. He walked quickly to Charlie and Ian's room, pushed inside quietly and stopped at the sink just inside the door to use the antimicrobial hand foam. Curtains were drawn around both beds, and the room felt claustrophobic.

Don peaked behind the corner of one curtain, and spied Ian, sleeping. The unit of blood was gone, but Edgarton was still on an IV drip, and was frowning slightly in his sleep, one hand resting over his abdomen. Don looked at him for a moment or two before he backed away from the curtain and headed for the other side of the room.

He stepped behind the other curtain and gazed over the mask at Charlie. He found himself drinking in the sight of his brother. There was an IV drip here, as well, but the drainage bag connected to Charlie's chest tube was definitely smaller. It had either been changed recently, or Charlie had less need for it, and it was nearly empty. The bed had been lowered from a 45-degree to a 30-degree angle, and Charlie lay on his back, his brow furrowed in worry. Don felt himself smiling at him fondly, and quietly moved the visitor's chair as close to the bed as he could.

He sat down, and reached his good arm through the bed rail to lightly touch Charlie's fingers with his own. "Hey, Chuck," he greeted softly, and Charlie's fingers curled on the sheet. Don laid his hand full on Charlie's arm, then, leaning forward a little. "Charlie? Dude, I didn't get all dressed up for nothing, here."

Charlie's eyes moved behind his lids, which eventually cracked open. He made a noise of distress and tried to pull back in the bed when he focused on the apparition at his bedside. Don's eyes crinkled over the mask and he laughed. "Calm down, Buddy, it's just me. Havercamp got me in to see you, but she insisted on all of this."

Charlie's eyes travelled to Don's wounded arm, and he immediately became upset. "You're hurt," he croaked. "Oh, God, you're hurt. I knew it, I knew it…"

Don started rubbing circles on Charlie's arm with his thumb. "It's nothing, Charlie, really. Havercamp used all the gauze in the hospital to make sure my nasty little staph infection didn't get all over you. Honest, on the outside, I've just been using a Band-Aid®; it's a _scratch_."

To his surprise, Charlie didn't look very relieved. On the contrary, his little brother looked ready to cry. Charlie leveled Don with his best 'wounded puppy'. "Please don't lie to me, Donny. I've…I've been in here for days without being able to see you, or Dad…Amita…" Charlie's dejected voice took on a nasal tone, as if his throat was closing. "I can't take any lies," he trailed off in a whisper.

Don hastened to reassure him. "Hey, hey, Buddy…I'm not lying. It's an infected scratch, and it's under control. I'm on antibiotics and everything."

Charlie took a deep, shuddering breath, wincing just a little. He regarded Don for a moment, and the serious expression on his face did not wane. "You were in trouble today," he finally said. "Dad and 'Mita, too – everybody. I felt it. Don't belittle that."

Don sighed behind the mask and stopped the motion of his thumb on Charlie's arm, but left his hand there. "All-right," he said. "I will tell you the truth, and I want you to believe _all_ of it – not just the bad part." Charlie's stare barely wavered. "You're right," Don informed his brother quietly. "Almost everybody you know – certainly everyone you love – was in some serious danger, today. I was scared, Charlie. Things went from 0 to 60 in less than a blink – and kept getting worse." The only change in Charlie's expression was a widening of his eyes, and Don gripped his forearm tightly and leaned as far over the rail as he could. "Look at my eyes, Charlie. I promise you, we're all okay."

Charlie looked a little doubtful. "Really?"

Don nodded. "Affirmative. Amita is fine, apart from a few bruises." He smiled, and his eyes crinkled over the mask again. "As a matter of fact, I'm thinking about sponsoring her if she chooses to change careers and enroll at Quantico." Before Charlie could interrupt, he continued down his list. "Dad has a mild concussion." He lifted his good hand from Charlie's arm to indicate the side of his face. "I took a few splinters." He settled his hand again, absently petting Charlie's arm. "Colby is downstairs; he probably got the worst of it – a piece of metal was impaled through the fleshly part of his calf. The docs are debriding the wound and stitching him up – if the hospital wasn't so full, both he and Dad would probably have to stay overnight. Amita and I will take them back to the house – we'll keep an eye or two on them." He smiled again, and shook his head in wonder. "Hell, maybe we'll bring Liz along. Apparently she and Colby are an item, now. Do you think Robin would understand if I spent the night with my ex-girlfriend? Under the circumstances?"

Charlie wasn't playing. "Is it over?" he asked instead. "Planet Green?"

The smile slipped from Don's face, and his eyes became solemn. "I hope so," he answered. "We've…eliminated…everyone we can, one way or the other. There are PG chapters all over California – I'm sure there are more members right here in L.A. But unless and until someone breaks the law, we can't just arbitrarily round 'em all up and ship them to Central America." His eyes grew dark with barely-controlled fury. "Much as I'd like to."

Charlie moved his arm under Don's hand, arranging it so that their fingers could touch, but didn't say anything. Don tried to change the subject. "So, look at you," he said. "Lee tells me your chest tube will be removed in the morning. If the day goes okay, you'll be released day-after-tomorrow! By that time, Dad and Colby and I will be safe for you to be around. Larry may have to wait another day," he mused. "He started antibiotics later than Dad and Colby…"

Charlie interrupted, his voice at once hopeful and terrified. "What about Amita?" he asked. "When can I see Amita?"

"Soon," Don hedged, standing. "If I help you, can you get up? Should I call a nurse?"

Charlie didn't know what his brother had in mind, but there was no hesitation on his part. Bottom line, he trusted Don. He grasped the hospital rail and started to pull himself to a seated position. "I've got it," he panted. At last he summoned a tiny grin. "Are you busting me outta here?"

Don laughed, and held out his good hand. "Let go of the rail and hang on," he ordered. "When you're steady, I'll let the rail down; somehow, between the two of us, we'll stagger all the way over to the window." Don glanced at it, glad again that it was on Charlie's side of the room, and not that far away. Charlie should be able to stretch his IV line that far.

As he had done for most of his life, Charlie willingly followed Don's orders. It was more difficult than either had anticipated; Charlie was slightly hung-over from his earlier sedation, and Don only had one good hand. A frightening amount of grunting and swearing was involved – from both men. Finally, though, they stood side-by-side at the window. Charlie stood on Don's good side, so that the older man could steady the younger if he started to weaken.

Don clumsily lifted his marshmallow-arm toward the glass, frowning slightly. "It'll be dark soon – I should have brought you over here sooner. Look down, and to your right – about 3 o'clock. She's standing under the front entrance awning."

Despite the glare on the window from the room's interior lights, Charlie had no trouble spotting the waving woman in the well-lit entryway. For the first time that evening, a genuinely delighted smile relaxed his features. He raised a hand to wave back. "I can't believe you guys figured out which room I'm in," he praised gratefully.

Don shrugged, and reached into the pocket of his jeans to retrieve his cell phone. "Actually, Havercamp and Sinclair worked all of that out while you were counting sheep earlier." He nudged Charlie gently, so as not to knock his brother off-balance, and offered him the phone. "This part is all me," he bragged. "Special dispensation for you to use a cell phone. Speed-dial '1'."

Charlie grabbed the phone as if he were a drowning man and it was a life raft, sparing a suspicious glance for Don. "Why is _my_ girlfriend number 1 on _your_ speed dial?"

Don laughed. "Because I just programmed it for you, you idiot!" He ruffled the back of Charlie's curly head fondly. "For a genius, you can be clueless, sometimes, ya know?"

Charlie depressed the '1', followed by the 'Send' button, and nodded somberly, looking out the window again. "I know," he surprised Don by agreeing, "but that's gonna stop now."

Don raised an eyebrow in question, but Charlie didn't see him. He wouldn't have had time to respond anyway – Amita answered her cell before the first ring was complete. "Charlie? Oh my God, Charlie! I can see you!" She had told herself she wouldn't cry, but of course it was the first thing she did.

Charlie moved closer to the window and held up his palm flat against the pane in a gesture that made Don slightly uncomfortable; it reminded him of people conversing in a prison visiting area. "Amita! 'Mita, baby, are you all right?"

She nodded and tears flew from her face into the night. "I miss you," she sniffed. "I wish I could hold you."

Charlie smiled, a soft and intimate smile that Don was almost embarrassed to witness. "Me, too," he whispered, and the two lovers listened to each other breathe for a long moment. Charlie suddenly straightened and Don saw a look of determination come over his face. "Amita. You are my life. My love. My past, my present and my future. Marry me." He heard her intake of breath and hurried on. "We've wasted too much time already; we'll never have all the data. I don't want to live another day without you as my wife."

Amita's knees went weak and she almost collapsed on the sidewalk in full view of Charlie and everyone else. Charlie wanted to marry her – and not just because he felt trapped by fatherhood. He didn't even know about the baby! Or did he? She narrowed her eyes, wishing she could see Don's face clearly. "What did Don tell you?" she asked.

Charlie had tried to think of every possible response she might come up with, so he would be prepared, but that had not even made the list. He shot a confused look at his brother. "Huh?"

"What. Did. Don. Tell. You." Amita repeated.

"When?" Charlie asked, truly trying to establish some parameters. "I mean, lots of stuff. Don told me how to sneak out of the house using the tree outside my window, and what to do for a hangover, and to wear hearing protection when he taught me how to shoot…" He was starting to sound a little frantic, and Don had no idea what was going on until Charlie practically whined into the phone. "I don't know what you want…tell me what you want…" Charlie closed his eyes and leaned his head onto the glass. "This isn't going at all well," he moaned.

Amita almost laughed at him, delighted to determine that it was unlikely Don had spilled the news. She bit her lip. "Just give the phone to your brother," she instructed.

Charlie groaned in distress and thrust the cell blindly in Don's direction. Surprised, Don almost dropped it before he managed to raise the phone to his ear. "Amita?"

He could hear the smile in her voice. "Don, you've always been there for Charlie. He's learned everything important from you. I've got one more thing for you to tell him: Repeat after me – _'Amita says 'yes'_."

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_**Oh, Yes! Coming Soon to a Fanfic Near You: The Epilogue**_


	33. Epilogue

**Title: ****Shall We Play A Game?**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: remains in effect**

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**Chapter Thirty-Three: **_**The Epilogue**_

The oven-timer sounded, and Millie smiled at the other women sitting at Alan's kitchen table and rose from her chair. "I haven't seen this many people at the house since the annual 4th of July barbecue," she noted. She pulled a sizzling apple pie out of the oven and placed it on the stovetop to cool, then turned to face Liz, Amita and Robin. "This is the story," she admonished sternly. "I made Alan's favorite homemade pie. He doesn't need to know anything about Marie Callendar® helping out."

Liz laughed and Robin pointed at the cardboard box on the counter. "Then the first thing you have to do is get rid of the evidence," she suggested.

Millie grabbed the container and flattened it between her hands. She looked almost desperately at Amita. "Where can I hide this?"

The young professor shook her head primly and crossed her arms over her chest. "Oh, no. That's my future father-in-law you're trying to fool."

Robin moved to the cupboard over the sink to retrieve several pie plates. "Mine, too," she pointed out, then glanced at Liz. "Maybe yours as well, the way Colby keeps calling him _'Dad'_ all the time!"

This time Millie laughed and Liz blushed. "We're **not** engaged! I'm just here to help him recover because I knew the two of you would be mooning all over the Brothers Eppes! Millie's got her hands full with both Alan and Ian…pie for everyone?"

"None for Charlie," interjected Amita and they all looked at her. "I made his favorite, too," she announced, crossing to the refrigerator and opening the door to reveal a slightly lopsided lemon meringue. "Alan tried to help, but he kept falling asleep."

Millie moved in behind her and peered over Amita's shoulder as she extricated the pie. "You've got too much time on your hands. Someone needs to get back to work," she teased. "You made that from scratch?"

Amita giggled as she placed the woebegone pie on the table. "Doesn't look like Marie had time to help me, does it?"

Robin opened a drawer and withdrew two pie servers, passing one to Amita. "It'll be fine one piece at a time," she contended. "Too bad David's not here; I remember on his last birthday, instead of a cake, Megan brought in a lemon meringue pie. Apparently it's not just Charlie's favorite!"

Amita began to slice her creation. "I still can't believe you two literally passed each other in the airport," she said. "I hope he's having a nice visit with his grandmother."

"So do I," Liz agreed, bringing a pie plate to the table for Amita. "She's just what he needs after…everything. Colby says David's really missed her since she moved to the Midwest to live with his cousin. She's a very grounding influence for him."

Millie stuck her apple pie in the freezer to cool it down a little faster. "_Colby_ says that, does he?" she teased. She winked at Robin. "Well, then, it must be true!"

"I'm sure it is!" retorted Liz, slightly affronted. "David's grandmother _raised_ him, she…"

Millie crossed the few feet to where Liz stood and gave her a quick hug. "I'm just giving you a hard time, Lizzie," she smiled. Liz smiled in return and felt her hackles go down. Millie gazed at Amita's pie; the meringue was sliding off, giving her an idea. "We should take some of that in to Larry; if you scrape the brown part off, it's virtually a white food."

Robin laughed and Amita glared at Millie. "No! This is Charlie's pie. If Larry won't eat apple, that's just too bad!"

Millie held up her hands in acquiescence and started back toward the refrigerator. "Maybe we should serve it a la mode," she suggested. "Vanilla ice cream is white."

Robin, Liz and Amita all answered at the same time, with varying degrees of horror. _"NO ICE CREAM!"_

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Alan sat in his recliner, where he could take in Charlie sitting on one end of the couch, Larry on the other. A chess set sat on the coffee table between them; the two had been engaged in the same game for almost two days. He also had a good view of Don, Ian and Colby, who were sitting at the dining room table working on part of their Planet Green paperwork.

He was almost beside himself with anticipation. For one thing, he had been smelling apple pie for nearly half an hour. For another, he had tried to stay awake long enough to help Amita make Charlie his favorite lemon meringue that afternoon, and suspected he knew why. He looked at Charlie again and felt himself tearing up; Good Lord, his baby was going to be a father!

Charlie felt Alan's eyes on him and glanced in his direction, but at that moment the swinging door from the kitchen opened, admitting beautiful women bearing hot apple pie, and Alan was saved from the third-degree. Liz and Robin stopped to set pieces down for the men in the dining room, while Millie charged triumphantly toward the living room, bringing still-bubbling slices of pie to both Alan and Larry. Amita brought up the rear, carrying a handful of mail in one hand, and a plate of lemon meringue in the other.

She settled in the middle of the couch, slightly closer to Charlie, and offered him the pie. "I made this for you," she said shyly. "It doesn't look quite right, but I think the taste is good."

Charlie's eyes shone as he leaned over the pie plate to kiss Amita directly on the lips. "It smells delicious," he assured her, lifting a forkful to his mouth immediately. "It's incredible," he pronounced. "Perfect – like you."

Don groaned from the vicinity of the dining room. "Aw, geez, Chuck," he garbled, his own mouth full. "You two should come with a diabetic warning."

Amita pointedly ignored Don and the spattering of laughter inspired by his remark. She _did_ pull away from Charlie a little, although she was still smiling into his eyes. "I've been saving these for you," she murmured, offering him the cards. "Greetings from students, mostly. They're anxious for their favorite professor to get back to work."

Charlie grinned at Larry's "I beg your pardon?" from the other end of the couch. He started to lean forward so that he could set his pie on the coffee table, but Amita quickly took it from him, filling his empty hands with _Get Well_ wishes. "Thank-you," Charlie said, leaning in to give Amita another quick kiss before he settled back into the corner of the couch.

Robin had planted herself on a chair next to Don, and now she elbowed him hard in the ribs. _"Hey!"_ he protested.

"_You_ should be that polite to _me_," she admonished. "Say _'please_' and _'thank-you'_ – at least until we get married."

Colby patted Liz on the knee – under the table – and turned to mouth a silent _'Thank-you'_ in her direction while Millie laughed and Alan just rolled his eyes.

Charlie shook his head and began to read the cards. Most were intended to be humorous, although very few actually made him laugh out loud. After the tenth one, he let his hands fall into his lap and looked at Amita. "I'm sensing a pattern," he informed her.

Amita dragged her eyes away from the cards; he had stopped looking at them at precisely the wrong time – the Father's Day card was now on the top of the pile. "What?" she asked, a trifle nervously.

"Each member of both of my freshmen classes signed a card," Charlie began. "The sophomore group sent a card, but only about 80 percent of the students signed. By the time we get to upper division, it's down to 45 to 50 percent. My graduate-level students sent individual cards – but just a few of them – and I haven't found anything at all from students working on a thesis. I fear that my popularity _decreases_ as the difficulty of work in my classes _increases_."

"A respectable hypothesis, Charles," observed Larry.

Amita set Charlie's pie next to the chess game on the coffee table and hid her face from him when she spoke. "You should read one more," she suggested. "Test the theory."

Charlie smiled and raised the top card into his line of sight. Forks around the entire lower floor of the Craftsman were quietly laid aside as everyone tried to watch him without being obvious about it. _'Happy Father's Day'_, Charlie read aloud, and then grinned across the room at Alan. "It's October, Dad. Isn't it a little late – or way too early – to start dropping hints about Father's Day?"

Alan wiped a tear from his cheek, pretending he was removing apple pie debris with his napkin. He waved a hand at his youngest. "Just read the card," he answered, even managing to make the command sound a bit sarcastic.

Charlie grinned a little wider. "Okay, okay," he responded, opening the small card. His eye went automatically to the right-hand side: "_'__May all the special discoveries of fatherhood be yours…" _he read, then stopped as he recognized his mother's signature on the bottom. The grin was replaced by a look of confusion as he looked back at his father. "Dad, this is that card Mom gave you – the one you usually keep in the photo album. How did it get in here?"

"It's yours, now," Alan smiled.

Charlie's confusion deepened, and he looked back at the card. "I don't understand," he admitted. He brought the card a little closer to his face. "Wait – someone wrote something under Mom…" The room itself seemed to hold its breath along with everyone it contained. Charlie read Amita's signature silently, then turned to face her. He appeared slightly hurt and offended, and her heart dropped. "Why would you sign Mom's card?"

Don couldn't stand anymore. "I told you. The most clueless genius in the universe."

Amita just looked at him, a deer caught in the headlights, and slow comprehension began to dawn on Charlie's face. For a moment, Alan couldn't decide which one of them looked more terrified.

His vote finally went to Charlie when his son bolted off the couch. Cards went flying everywhere, and he knocked over the coffee table, effectively ruining two days' worth of chess and one piece of lemon meringue pie. "OhmyGod," Charlie cried. "Larry, get off the couch – Amita has to lay down." He looked frantically at the woman in question. "You should lie down," he repeated. "My God." He whirled, then, and faced the crowd in the dining room. "Don, boil some water. Hurry!"

Amita smiled, and stood. She stepped around the downed coffee table to chase her intended halfway through the living room. "Charlie, we still have over 7 months! Calm down, sweetheart – you're wheezing again!" Charlie whirled around once more, so fast this time that he lost his balance and tripped over his own feet, falling to the carpet. Amita made a noise of distress and quickly lowered herself to her knees so that she could reach out and touch his stubbled face. "Are you all-right?"

Charlie nodded dumbly. "Are you?" he echoed.

Suddenly, it was if there was no-one in the room except the two of them. Amita felt her smile wobble and lowered both her hand and her eyes. "Is…is this okay?" she whispered, afraid to hear his answer.

He put one hand on either side of her face, and raised it from its bowed position until he could lean forward and kiss her full on the lips. The kiss was long, full of sweetness that tasted like love, and Charlie, and all that was good in the world. At length, their lips parted, but Charlie pulled his head back only a few inches. Tears were rolling unfettered down his face. "I wanted to ask if we could start a family right away," he confessed. "I told myself I was being selfish, and I should wait until you were ready."

He slid his hands from her face; one stopped at the back of her neck, and the other buried itself in the black hair at the crown of her head. Charlie pulled Amita to him, folding her into his arms and turning his head to whisper into her ear. "I love you," he nuzzled. "Thank-you. Thank-you." The stress and fear and emotional see-saw of the last few days caught up with the young woman, and she tucked her head into his chest, twisted a hand in his t-shirt, and sobbed as if her heart would break.

Charlie soothed her while the others in the room glanced self-consciously at each other and their feet, suddenly feeling extraneous. At length, Amita's tears slowed, and Charlie felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up into Don's proud grin. "Hey, Buddy. You two need a hand up, or are you planning on living at Ground Zero from now on?"

Charlie moved a hand to support Amita's elbow. "Help 'Mita first," he insisted.

"I've got her," came Robin's voice from his other side. Only when the women were both standing and exchanging an embrace did Charlie allow Don to heave him into a standing position.

Charlie swayed a little as he took his feet; whether from his recent illness or the shock of the moment was hard to determine. Don kept a steadying grip on his brother's bicep until Charlie finally focused his eyes on his and burst into the most brilliant smile Don had ever seen – it was almost like watching the sun rise, or staring into an eclipse. "Donny!" chortled Charlie, his eyes starting to water again, "I'm gonna be a father! Did you hear?! _I'm gonna be a Dad!!"_

Don smiled and broke the Eppes' family rule; he gathered Charlie in a full-on hug, squeezing perhaps a little too tightly considering his brother's recent medical challenges, and pounding him solidly on the back to make it worse. "Congratulations, Bro! Congratulations!"

Charlie coughed into Don's shoulder and the older man came to his senses and let go, pulling back so abruptly Charlie stumbled and almost took another header. He didn't seem to notice as Don grabbed his arm again, and he still had that smile on his face. "You can't spoil her," he admonished, settling onto his feet again.

Don grinned and let go of Charlie's arm. He waggled his eyebrows, and included Amita in his glance. "I have absolutely every intension of spoiling _him_," he retorted. "It's my prerogative as an Uncle. Plus, I've already started making a list; I'm going to teach him all the important stuff: How to spit, when to throw a curve ball, driving lessons… You know, Chuck, all the things you never quite got a handle on."

Most of the audience laughed, but Amita leapt to her man's defense, moving closer to him and putting an arm around his waist. "That is absolutely _not true_," she began, and then blushed faintly and dropped her eyes to the floor. "At least, not entirely…"

This time even Charlie laughed. "Thanks," he said, turning his head to kiss Amita on the cheek. "I think." He returned his attention to Don. "You'll be a great Uncle," he enthused, "just like you've always been a great brother."

Don felt the heat of embarrassment flushing his face and tried to deflect attention. He pivoted, speaking as he went. "You hear that, Dad? You're my wit…" His mouth clamped shut at the sight of Alan's empty recliner.

Charlie raised on his tiptoes to look peer over Don's shoulder. "Where's Dad?" he asked, a note of fear entering his voice. He pawed roughly at the back of Don's shirt. "Is he… not ok with this?"

Don started shaking his head as he turned back around to face Charlie. "Are you kidding? After all the begging for grandchildren?"

Amita started to look a little troubled as well. "He _seemed_ happy," she confided to Charlie. She even offered him a tiny grin. "He danced around the koi pond and everything."

Alan's voice echoed from halfway down the stairs. "I'll thank you to keep that between us, Missy!"

Robin moved around to stand with Don as Charlie and Amita turned to face the stairs. Larry had joined Colby, Liz, Ian and Millie in the dining room, and they also turned their rapt attention Alan's way, eagerly anticipating the next act as if in the balcony of a theater, witnessing a live performance. Larry took out his cell phone and prepared to snap a photo. "Megan threatened me with decapitation if I didn't preserve the moment," he murmured, standing to get a clear shot over Colby's head.

Alan smiled broadly as he hurried down the stairs, one hand on the rail and the other carrying something wrapped in brown butcher paper, tied with string. He stopped a few inches in front of Charlie, and leaned to kiss his son on the cheek and offer a one-armed embrace. "Don't be silly, Little One," he reprimanded lightly as he pulled away. "Of course I'm happy!" He winked at Don, standing behind his brother. "I could only be happier if Don and Robin were to provide some cousins for my first grandchild. Soon."

Don groaned and poked Charlie in the back. "Thanks a lot, Chuck!" Then he looked at Robin and smiled. "Seriously…thanks a lot, Chuck."

Charlie grinned and Alan waited for the chuckles to die down before he offered his parcel to Charlie and Amita. "I went upstairs to get this," he explained. "I've been keeping it in my dresser, but it's for you."

Charlie reached out his hands to accept the package and held it so that Amita could until the string. "What is it?" he asked rhetorically.

Amita fumbled with the string so long that Don finally took out his pocket knife and reached between Charlie and his fiancé to cut through it. He was putting the closed knife back in his pocket when the brown paper fell away to reveal a folded baby blanket. Amita _oohed_ as she shook the blanket open.

It was soft; crocheted of pastel yellow yarn and dotted with tiny white daises that had been painstakingly layered onto a second level, creating a gentle three-dimensional effect. "Oh, Alan," she cried, tears threatening to fall again, "it's beautiful! Wherever did you find this?"

Alan blinked back his own tears and almost unconsciously reached out a hand to touch the blanket reverently. "Margaret made it," he answered quietly, and Charlie gasped.

"This is what she was working on," he guessed, "those first few months…" He swallowed painfully. "Before Don came home. Before I went out to the garage. She used to try and hide it every time I found her in the solarium."

Alan nodded, smiling at the memory. "After the doctors…after she stopped treatments, she wanted to make two – one for each of you – but she was so weak. She couldn't work very long." He sighed and blinked, then moved his gaze to Don and smiled again. "When she finished this one, she told me to give it to the first grandchild." He reached almost reluctantly into the back pocket of his jeans and withdrew a small, folded sheet of stationery. "She wrote this to go with it."

Charlie looked at the paper as if it had the power to kill him, and didn't move a muscle. Amita was already sobbing quietly, and Don didn't look much better than either of them. So finally, Robin took the letter from Alan. She unfolded it carefully, and began to read the shaky handwriting aloud:

"_Dear Son,_

_I wish I could be with you at this exciting time; in fact, I'm sure I will find a way. You will feel my joy and pride all around you as you bring a new generation of Eppes into this world. I trust that your dear father lives long enough to see this happen, and I encourage you to turn to him for the wisdom that can so enrich this experience for you. When you wrap your babe in this blanket, he or she will feel the love of his – or her – grandmother. Use it well, but treat it gently; I would like you to pass it on to your brother to use with his first child._

_Congratulations, my son – whichever one of you gets to the blanket first. I wish I had the strength to make you each one; but it may be better this way. I hope that my two boys have found their way to each other before now; but if not, perhaps the passing of the blanket will be the first step to help you become close. Your brother is a fine man – and I can say that to each of you – and you would do well to have him in your life._

_Always remember that I felt this same happiness when I found that I was pregnant with you – and every day since._

_All my love,_

_Mom."_

By the time she finished reading, there was nary a dry eye in the house. Even Colby was sniffing loudly, using his napkin as a tissue.

"What an incredible woman," murmured Millie, dabbing at her own eyes.

Don could see Charlie's shoulders shaking silently, and for the first time he could ever remember, he embraced his little brother twice in one evening. Charlie twisted around in this arms to return the hug. "Mom was right," said Don gruffly. "You're a good man."

"She said _'fine'_," Charlie contradicted. "And Mom was always right."

Don smiled and looked over Charlie's shoulder at Alan, who winked at him and took a deep, cleansing breath. "Well, I'm the one she called _'wise'_," he announced, "and in my infinite wisdom, I say it's time for more pie."

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**The End**

_**A/N: Oh, no! It's over! Or, has it just begun? I don't know about you, but the letter from Margaret just about reduced me to a puddle! The Cat cannot promise a sequel in the near future, but I feel there is a good possibility we will meet The Babe at some future point. And now, for a word from our sponsor: Stay tuned to this channel for the debut of "High Society", a Rabid Raccoons production that promises to take whumping off the charts.**_


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